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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..dd98669 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #63819 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/63819) diff --git a/old/63819-0.txt b/old/63819-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 04199dc..0000000 --- a/old/63819-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,6402 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of Claude's Confession, by Émile Zola - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most -other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Claude's Confession - -Author: Émile Zola - -Translator: George D. Cox - -Release Date: November 20, 2020 [EBook #63819] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAUDE'S CONFESSION *** - - - - -Produced by Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free -Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi -Trust.) - - - - - -CLAUDE'S CONFESSION. - -BY - - -ÉMILE ZOLA. - - -AUTHOR Of "NANA," "L'ASSOMMOIR," "THE GIRL IN SCARLET," "HELENE," -"POT-BOUILLE," "THERESE RAQUIN," "THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES," -"MAGDALEN FERAT," "A MAD LOVE: OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT," -"THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON," -"LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS," -"ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE'S TEMPTATION." - - -TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH - -BY GEORGE D. COX. - - -"Claude's Confession," by Émile Zola, is one of the most exciting and -naturalistic romances that great author has ever produced. It is founded -on his own life, and he himself, under the name of Claude, figures as -the hero. The book is a deep and searching analysis of human feelings, -and surely the miseries of student life in the Paris Quartier Latin were -never set forth in such vivid and startling fashion as in its pages. -Claude, Laurence, Marie, Jacques and Pâquerette play parts in a dark -drama of blasted youth and dissipation truly Parisian in all its -characteristics, and the interest excited in these personages and their -eventful careers is simply overwhelming. The plot is well handled, and -all the incidents possess dramatic intensity. The description of the -public ball is a bit of lurid word-painting which Zola has never -surpassed, while that of the trip of Claude and Laurence to the country -in the spring sparkles with romantic and poetic beauty. Marie's death -and the dénouement are depicted in a style that is powerful in the -highest degree. "Claude's Confession" is one of the strongest books -imaginable, and will certainly fascinate all who take it up. - - -PHILADELPHIA: -T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS; -306 CHESTNUT STREET. - - - - -CLAUDE'S CONFESSION. - -BY ÉMILE ZOLA. - - -DEDICATION - - -TO MY FRIENDS, P. CÉZANNE AND J. B. BAILLE. - - -You knew, my friends, the wretched youth whose letters I now publish. -That youth is no more. He wished to become a man amid the wreck and -oblivion of his early days. - -I have long hesitated about giving the following pages to the public. I -doubted my right to lay bare a body and a heart; I questioned myself, -asking if it was allowable to divulge the secret of a confession. Then, -when I re-read the panting and feverish letters, hanging together by a -mere thread, I was discouraged; I said to myself that readers would, -doubtless, accord but a cold reception to such a delirious and excited -publication. Grief has but one cry: the work is an incessant complaint. -I hesitated as a man and as a writer. - -At last, I thought, one day, that our age has need of lessons and that I -had, perhaps, in my hands, the means of curing a few wounded hearts. -People wish poets and novelists to moralize. I knew not how to mount the -pulpit, but I possessed the work of blood and tears of a poor soul--I -could, in my turn, instruct and console. Claude's avowals had the -supreme precept of sobs, the high and pure moral of the fall and the -redemption. - -I then saw that these letters were such as they should be. I have no -idea how the public will accept them, but I have faith in their -frankness, even in their fury. They are human. - -Hence, my friends, I resolved to publish this book. I took my decision -in the name of truth and the general good. Besides, looking above the -masses, I thought of you: it would please me to relate to you again the -terrible story which has already filled your eyes with tears. - -This story is bare and true even to crudity. The delicate may not like -it, but it will teach them a lesson they cannot fail to profit by. I -have not felt at liberty to cut out a single line, being certain that -these pages are the complete expression of a heart in which there was -more light than darkness. They were written by a nervous and loving -youth, who gave himself entirely to them amid the quivering of his flesh -and the bounds of his soul. They are the morbid manifestation of a -special temperament, which had a bitter need of the real and the false -but sweet hopes of a dream. The whole book is a struggle between -illusion and reality. If Claude's strange love affair should make people -judge him severely, they will pardon him at the dénouement, when he -lifts himself up, younger and stronger, relying upon God. - -There was an apostle in Claude. He tells us of his desolated youth, -shows us his wounds and cries aloud what he has suffered that his -brethren may avoid like sufferings. These are evil times for hearts -which resemble his. - -I can in a word characterize his work, accord him the highest praise -that I desire as an artist, and, at the same time, reply to all the -objections that may be made: - -Claude's aspirations were too lofty. - -ÉMILE ZOLA. - - - - -CONTENTS - -Chapter -I. A MANSARDE IN THE LATIN QUARTER -II. A POET'S LONGINGS -III. THE YOUNG HARVEST-GIRL -IV. TEMPTATION -V. PAQUERETTE -VI. DESPAIR -VII. LAURENCE -VIII. A MISSION FROM ON HIGH -IX. THE COURSE OF REFORMATION -X. THE EMBROIDERY STRIP -XI. ON THE WAY TO THE BALL -XII. THE PUBLIC BALL -XIII. AN ACCEPTANCE OF REALITY -XIV. JACQUES AND MARIE -XV. BITING POVERTY -XVI. REMINISCENCES -XVII. CLAUDE'S LOVE -XVIII. JACQUES' SUPPER -XIX. A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY -XX. A BITTER AVOWAL -XXI. A HORRIBLE PROPOSITION -XXII. THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL -XXIII. PRACTICAL ADVICE -XXIV. SAD REFLECTIONS -XXV. THE FAIR -XXVI. AT MARIE'S BEDSIDE -XXVII. MARIE'S DEATH -XXVIII. LAURENCE'S DEPARTURE -XXIX. CONCLUSION - - - - -CLAUDE'S CONFESSION. - -BY ÉMILE ZOLA. - - -AUTHOR Of "NANA," "L'ASSOMMOIR," "THE GIRL IN SCARLET," "HELENE," -"POT-BOUILLE," "THERESE RAQUIN," "THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES," -"MAGDALEN FERAT," "A MAD LOVE: OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT," -"THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON," -"LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS," -"ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE'S TEMPTATION." - - - - -CHAPTER I - -A MANSARDE IN THE LATIN QUARTER - - -Winter is here: the air in the morning becomes fresher, and Paris puts -on her mantle of fog. This is the season of social soirées. Chilly lips -search for kisses; lovers, driven from the country, take refuge beneath -the mansardes, and, huddling together before the hearth, enjoy, amid the -noise of the rain, their eternal spring. - -As for me, I live in sadness: I have the winter without the spring, -without a sweetheart. My garret, away up a damp staircase, is large and -irregular; the corners lose themselves in the gloom, the bare and -slanting walls make of the chamber a sort of corridor which stretches -out in the form of a bier. The wretched furniture, the narrow planks, -ill fitted and painted a horrible red color, crack funereally when they -are touched. Shreds of faded damask hang from the canopy of the bed, and -the curtainless window opens upon a huge black wall, never changing and -always repulsive. - -In the evening, when the wind shakes the door and the walls are dimly -outlined by the flame of my lamp, I feel a sad and icy weariness press -upon me. I pause before the expiring fire on the hearth, before the ugly -brown roses on the wall paper, before the faïence vases in which the -last flowers have faded, and I imagine I hear everything complain of -solitude and poverty. This complaint is heart-rending. The entire -mansarde demands of me laughter, the riches of its sisters. The hearth -exacts a huge, joyous blaze; the vases, forgetting the snow, sigh for -fresh roses; the very air speaks to me of flaxen hair and white -shoulders. - -I listen and cannot help feeling sorrowful. I have no chandelier to -suspend from the ceiling, no carpet to hide the irregular and broken -planks. And, when my chamber refuses to smile save upon a beautiful -white curtain, upon plain but shining furniture, I grow more sorrowful -still because I cannot satisfy it. Then it seems to me more deserted and -miserable than ever: the wind comes in colder gusts, the gloom grows -denser; the dust gathers in heaps on the floor, the wall paper tears -showing the plaster. There is a general pause, and, in the silence, I -hear the sobs of my heart. - -Brothers, do you remember the days when life for us was a dream? We had -friendship, we had visions of love and glory. Do you recall those cool -evenings in Provence, when, as the stars came out, we sat down in the -furrows still glowing with the heat of the sun? The crickets chirped; -the harmonious breath of summer nights enveloped our chat. All three of -us let our lips say what our hearts thought, and, in our simplicity, we -adored queens, we crowned ourselves with laurels. You told me your -dreams, I told you mine. Then, we deigned to come back to earth. I -confided to you my plan of life, consecrated to toil and struggles. -Feeling the wealth of my mind, I was pleased at the idea of poverty. You -were ascending, like me, the stairway of the mansardes, you hoped to -nourish yourselves on high thoughts; in your ignorance of the reality, -you seemed to believe that the artist in his sleepless night gains the -bread of the morrow. - -At other times, when the flowers were sweeter, the stars more radiant, -we caressed visions of loveliness. Each of us had his sweetheart. -Yours--do you recollect?--brown and laughing girls, were queens of the -harvest and vintage; they played about, decked with ears of grain and -bunches of grapes, and ran along the paths, carried away in the whirl of -their turbulent youth. Mine, pale and blonde, had the royalty of the -lakes and clouds; she walked languidly, crowned with verbenas, seeming -at each step about to quit the earth. - -Do you remember, brothers, that last month we went thus to dream amid -the fields and draw the courage of man from the holy faith of the child? -I was weary of dreaming, I thought myself strong enough for reality. -Five weeks have passed since I left our broad district, fertilized by -the hot breath of the south. I grasped your hands, said adieu to our -favorite field, and was the first to go in search of the crown and the -sweetheart reserved by God for our twentieth year. - -"Claude," you said to me at the moment of departure, "you are about to -begin the struggle. To-morrow, we shall not be beside you as formerly, -imparting to you hope and courage. You will find yourself alone and -poor, having only recollections to people and gild your solitude. The -way is rough, people tell us. Go, however, since you thirst for life. -Remember your plans: be firm and loyal in action, as you were in your -dreams; live in the garrets, eat your dry bread, smile at want. As a -man, do not jeer at the ignorance of the child, but accept the hard -labor of the grand and the beautiful. Suffering elevates a man, and -tears are dried one day when one has greatly loved. Have courage and -wait for us. We will console you and scold you from here. We cannot -follow you now, for we do not possess your strength; our dream is yet -too seductive for us to change it for reality." - -Scold me, brothers, and console me. I am only commencing to live, and I -am already very sad. Ah! how joyous was the mansarde of our dreams! How -the window sparkled in the sunshine, and how poverty and solitude -rendered life there studious and peaceful! Want had for us the luxury of -light and smiles. But do you know how ugly a real mansarde is? Do you -know how cold one is when one is alone, without flowers, without white -curtains upon which to rest the eyes? Light and gayety pass by without -entering, fearing to venture amid the gloom and silence. - -Where are my fields and my brooks? Where are my setting suns, which -gilded the tops of the poplars and changed the rocks into sparkling -palaces? Have I deceived myself, brothers? Am I only a lad who would be -a man before his time? Have I had too great confidence in my strength, -and should I still be dreaming beside you? - -The day is breaking. I have passed the night before my extinguished -fire, looking at my poor walls and relating to you my first sufferings. -A wan light illuminates the roofs, a few flakes of snow fall slowly from -the pale, sad sky. The awakening of great cities is tumultuous. I hear, -coming up to me, those street murmurs which resemble sobs. - -No; this window refuses me the sunlight, this floor is damp, this -mansarde is deserted. I cannot love, I cannot work here. - - - - -CHAPTER II - -A POET'S LONGINGS - - -You are irritated by my lack of courage, you accuse me of coveting -velvet and bronze, of not accepting the holy poverty of the poet. Alas! -I love broad curtains, candelabra, marble upon which the chisel has left -the impress of its powerful caresses. I love everything that shines, -everything that has beauty, grace and richness. I need princely -dwellings, or, rather, the fields with their carpets of fresh and -perfumed moss, their draperies of leaves, their wide horizons of light. -I prefer the luxury of God to the luxury of men. - -Pardon, brothers, for silk is so soft, lace so light; the sun laughs so -gayly in gold and crystal! - -Let me dream; have no fear for my pride. I wish to hear your strong and -cheering words, to embellish my mansarde with gayety, to illuminate it -with noble thoughts. If I feel too lonely, I will create for myself an -ideal sweetheart who, responsive to my call, will run to kiss me on the -forehead after the accomplishment of my task. If the floor be cold, if I -have no bread, I will forget winter and hunger in feeling my heart warm. -In one's twentieth year it is easy to be the artisan of one's joy. - -The other night, the voice of the winds was melancholy, my lamp was -dying, my fire was extinguished; sleeplessness had troubled my mind, -pale phantoms were wandering about me in the gloom. I was afraid, -brothers, I felt myself weak, I shed tears. The first ray of dawn drove -off the nightmare. Now, the obstacle is no longer in me. I accept the -struggle. - -I wish to live in a desert, hearing only my heart, seeing only my dream. -I desire to forget men, to question myself and reply. Like a young wife -whose bosom quivers with a mother's anxiety, the poet, when he thinks an -idea awakening in him, should have an hour of ecstasy and reflection. He -runs to shut himself up with his dear burden, fears to believe in his -good fortune, interrogates his soul, hopes and doubts in turn. Then, -when a sharper pain tells him that God has made his mind fruitful, for -long months he shuns the crowd, giving himself entirely to the love of -the masterpiece which Heaven has confided to him. - -Let him hide himself, and enjoy like a miser the anguish of production; -to-morrow, in his pride, he will come forth to demand caresses for the -fruit of his mind. - -I am poor; I should live alone. My pride would suffer from commonplace -consolations, my hand wishes to press only those of my equals. I am -ignorant of the world, but I feel that Want is so cold she must freeze -the hearts around her, and that, being the sister of Vice, she is timid -and ashamed when she is noble. I carry my head aloft and do not mean to -lower it. - -Poverty and Solitude, be you then my guests. Be my guardian angels, my -muses, my companions with harsh but encouraging voices. Make me strong, -give me the science of living, tell me the cost of my daily bread. May -your vigorous caresses, so sharp that they seem like wounds, force me -towards the good and the just. I will relight my lamp during these -winter nights, and I will feel you both beside me, icy and silent, -bending over my table, dictating to me the hard truth. When, weary of -gloom and silence, I put by my pen and curse you, your melancholy smiles -will, perhaps, make me doubt my dreams. Then your serene and sad peace -will render you so beautiful that I will take you for my sweethearts. -Our loves shall be as serene and deep as you; the lovers of sixteen will -envy the bitter pleasure of our fruitful kisses. - -But, nevertheless, brothers, it would be delightful to me to feel the -purple upon my shoulders, not to drape myself with it before the crowd, -but to live more generously beneath the rich and superb tissue. It would -be delightful to me to be king of Asia, to dream night and day upon a -bed of roses in one of those fairy-like dwelling-places, harems of -flowers and sultanas. The marble baths with perfumed fountains, the -galleries of honeysuckles supported by silver trellises, the immense -halls with ceilings sown with stars, do not these constitute the palace -which the angels should build for each young man of twenty? Youth wishes -at its festival all that sings, all that shines. When the first kiss is -given, the fiancée should be covered with lace and jewels, and the -nuptial couch, borne by four golden and marble fairies, should have a -canopy of precious stones and sheets of satin. - -Brothers, brothers, do not scold me, for I wish to be wise. I shall love -my garret and think no more of my palaces. Oh! how fresh and passionate -life would be in them! - - - - -CHAPTER III - -THE YOUNG HARVEST-GIRL - - -I toil and hope. I pass the days seated at my little table, putting -aside my pen for long hours to caress some ideal blonde whom the ink -would soil. Then, I resume my work, decking my heroines with the rays of -my dreams. I forget the snow and the empty closet. I live I know not -where, perhaps in a cloud, perhaps amid the down of an abandoned nest. -When I write a phrase sprucely and coquettishly draped, I imagine I see -angels and hawthorns in bloom. - -I have the holy gayety of toil. Ah! how foolish I was to be sad, and how -deceived I was in thinking myself poor and alone! Yesterday my chamber -was hideous; now it smiles upon me. I feel around me friends whom I -cannot see, but who are legion and who all put out their hands to me. So -great is their number that they hide from me the walls of my den. - -Poor little table, when Despair shall touch me with her wing, I will -always seat myself before you and bend over the white paper on which my -dream fixes itself only after having given me a smile. - -Alas! I must have, nevertheless, a shade of reality. I surprise myself -sometimes uneasy, wishing for a joy that I cannot shape. Then, I hear -something like a complaint from my heart: it tells me that it is always -cold, always famished, and that a mad dream can neither warm nor satisfy -it. I wish to content it. I will go out to-morrow, no longer isolating -myself in myself, but gazing at the windows, telling it to make its -choice from among the beautiful ladies. Then, from time to time, I will -take it back beneath the chosen balcony. It will carry away from it a -glance to feed on, and, for a week, will no longer feel the winter. When -again it shall cry famine, a new smile shall appease it. - -Brothers, have you never imagined that, on a certain autumn evening, you -met amid the grain fields a brunette of sixteen? She smiled upon you as -she flitted by, then was lost among the wheat heads. That night you -dreamed of her, and, on the morrow, at the same hour, took the path from -the town. The dear vision passed, smiled again, leaving you a new dream -for your next sleep. Months, years elapsed. Every day your famished -heart was satisfied with a smile and never desired more. An entire -lifetime would not be long enough for you to exhaust the glance of the -young harvest-girl. - - - - -CHAPTER IV - -TEMPTATION - - -Last evening, I had a bright fire on the hearth. I was rich enough to -have two candles, and had lighted them both, regardless of the morrow. - -I surprised myself singing, as I prepared for a night of toil. The -mansarde laughed to find itself warm and luminous. - -As I sat down, I heard on the stairway the sound of voices and hurried -steps. Doors opened and shut. Then, amid the silence that ensued, -stifled cries came up to me. I sprang to my feet, vaguely disturbed, and -listened. The noise ceased. I was about to resume my chair, when some -one ran up-stairs and called out to me that a woman, my neighbor, had a -nervous attack. My help was asked. I held the door open, but saw only -the dark and gloomy stairway. - -I put on a warmer coat and went down, forgetting even to take one of my -candles. On the floor below I stopped, not knowing what room to enter. I -did not hear a sound; I was surrounded by thick darkness. At last I saw -a thin thread of light through a half open door. I gave the door a push. - -The chamber was the sister of mine: large, irregular and out of repair. -But, as I had left my mansarde in a flood of flame and brightness, the -gloom and cold of this place filled my heart with pity and sadness. Damp -air struck against my face; a miserable candle, burning on one corner of -the mantelpiece, flickered in the blast from the stairway, without -permitting me at first to see the objects before me. - -I had paused upon the threshold. Finally I distinguished the bed: the -sheets, thrown off and twisted, had slipped to the floor; scattered -garments lay about on the coverlet. - -In the midst of these rags was stretched out a vague, white form. I -should have thought I saw a corpse, if the candle had not given me -occasional glimpses of a hand hanging out of the bed and agitated by -rapid convulsions. - -By the pillow was an old woman. Her unfastened gray hair fell in stiff -locks over her forehead, her hastily put on dress showed her yellow and -wasted arms. She had her back towards me, was holding the head and hid -from me the face of the woman on the bed. - -The quivering body, watched over by this horrible old woman, gave me a -sudden feeling of disgust and fright. The motionlessness of their -countenances gave them fantastic dimensions, their silence made one -almost doubt that they were alive. I thought for an instant that I was -witnessing one of those terrible scenes of the witches' Sabbath, when -the sorceresses suck the blood of young girls, and, throwing them -ghastly and wrinkled into the arms of Death, rob them of their youth and -freshness. - -The noise I made at the door caused the old woman to turn her head. She -let the body she was supporting fall heavily; then, she advanced towards -me. - -"Ah! Monsieur," she said, "I thank you for having come. Old people fear -the winter nights, and this room is so cold that, perhaps, I would not -have been able to leave it in the morning. I have been watching a long -while, and when one eats but little, one needs more sleep. Besides, the -crisis is over. You will have to wait only until this girl awakens. Good -night, Monsieur." - -The old woman went away, and I was alone. I shut the door, and, taking -up the candle, approached the bed. The girl extended upon it seemed -about twenty-four. She was plunged in that deep stupor which follows -nervous convulsions. Her feet were drawn up beneath her; her arms, still -stiff and wide open, were thrown over the edges of the bed. I could not -at first judge of her beauty: her head, thrown backward, was concealed -by her flood of hair. - -I took her in my arms, straightened out her limbs and placed her upon -her back. Then I drew away the hair from her face. She was ugly: her -closed eyes had no lashes, her temples were low and retiring, her mouth -large and sunken. Premature old age had effaced the outlines of her -features and left upon her whole countenance an imprint of lassitude and -avidity. - -She was sleeping. I heaped over her feet all the rags within my reach; -then I raised her head by putting under it more old clothes which I had -found and rolled into a bundle. My science being limited to these cares, -I decided to wait until she awoke. I feared lest she might have another -attack, fall and wound herself. - -I examined the garret. On entering I had noticed a strong perfume of -musk, which, mingling with the sharp odor of the dampness, struck -strangely upon the sense of smell. Upon the mantelpiece was a row of -vials and little pots, still greasy with aromatic oils. Above hung a -cracked looking-glass, with the amalgam at the back gone in broad -patches. In addition, the walls were bare. Many things lay about on the -floor: satin shoes down at the heel, dirty linen, faded ribbons, rags of -lace. As I went along, scattering the tatters with my foot to make a -passage for myself, I came across a handsome dress of blue silk, -ornamented with bows of velvet. It had been thrown into a corner among -the other gewgaws, rolled up, rumpled, stained yet with the mud of the -town. I raised it and hung it on a nail. - -Weary and finding no chair, I sat down on the foot of the bed. I began -to understand where I was. The girl still slept; she was now plainly -visible. I thought I had made a mistake in declaring her ugly, and -looked at her with greater attention. An easier sleep had brought to her -lips a vague smile; her features were relaxed; her past suffering had -given a sort of gentle and sad beauty to her ugliness. She reposed, -sorrowful and resigned. Her soul seemed to have taken advantage of her -rest to mount to her face. - -I was amid unclean want, a strange assemblage of blue silk and filth. -This garret was the infamous den of famished luxury selling its satiety; -this girl was one of those old wretches of twenty, no longer having -anything of the woman about them but the fatal stamp of their sex, -vending that mortality which Heaven has left them in withdrawing their -souls. How could so much slime be in a single being, so many stains on a -single heart! God roughly smites His creature when He allows her to tear -her robe of innocence and assume the wretched garments of vice! In our -visions of love, we never dreamed that some night we should find a -miserable bed in a garret full of gloom, and, upon that bed, a girl of -the gutter, asleep and half-clad! - -The unfortunate creature was evidently under the caressing wing of a -dream; gentle and regular breath escaped from her lips; over her -languidly closed eyelids at times ran a faint quiver. I leaned upon the -bed; my glance could not loosen itself from that pale face, beautiful -with a strange beauty. I know not what fascination was exerted upon me -by this peaceful sleep of vice, these faded features, stamped in their -repose with an angelic mildness. I said to myself that this slumbering -girl was receiving a visit from her sixteenth year, and that thus purity -itself was before me. This thought filled my mind; if any other mingled -with it I did not know it. I no longer felt the cold, but I trembled. My -veins throbbed with an unknown fever. My reverie rambled on, more uneasy -and more sorrowful. - -The girl uttered a sigh, and turned over. She threw back the coverlet, -exposing her bust. - -My dreams had shown me only chaste statues, always veiled by dazzling -brightness. I had seen but the arms of washerwomen, gayly beating their -linen. Sometimes, perhaps, my glance had strayed over the white and -delicate neck of a danseuse, when, getting the better of my heart, I had -felt my thoughts troubled by the sweep of her flaxen tresses. - -This roughly uncovered bust made me blush, and filled me with such -anguish that I was on the point of weeping. I was ashamed for the young -woman's sake; I felt my purity departing as I gazed at her. -Nevertheless, I could not turn away my eyes; I followed the gentle -undulations of her breast, and was dazzled by its whiteness. My senses -were still silent; my mind alone was intoxicated. My impressions had a -charm so strange that I can now compare them only to the holy horror -that shook me the day I beheld a corpse for the first time. My -imagination had represented death to me. But when I saw that bluish -face, that black and open mouth, when destruction showed itself in its -energetic grandeur, I could not withdraw my glances from the dead, for I -was quivering with a sorrowful delight, I was attracted by I know not -what glimmer of reality. - -Thus, the first bare throat held me palpitating with an emotion I am -unable to define. - -And it was a bust bruised by harsh caresses upon which my eyes rested! -Ah! when I now think of it, of that frightened ecstasy which restrained -my breath, when I again see myself bent over that infamous couch, uneasy -and blushing, I ask myself with anguish who will restore to me that -first glance that I may bend and blush over the couch of purity! I ask -myself who will restore to me the instant when the veil falls from the -shoulders of the bride, when the bridegroom comprehends that the -choicest gift of Heaven is his and bows his head, dazzled by the -knowledge! I have drunk to intoxication from a perilous cup; I shall -never realize what splendor a bride has in the eyes of a young and -innocent husband. - -The girl awoke and smiled, without seeming astonished to find me near -her. Her smile was vague, as if addressed to a crowd, as if weary of -being upon her lips. She did not speak, but put out her arms towards me. - -In the morning, when I returned to my garret, I found my candles -entirely burned away and the fire on my hearth long dead. The chamber -was cold and sombre: I no longer had either flame or brightness. - - - - -CHAPTER V - -PAQUERETTE - - -Brothers, where is the sweetheart, queen of the lakes and clouds, or the -harvest brunette whose glance is so deep as to suffice for a life of -love? - -Well, all is over: I have belied my youth; I am the fiancé of vice. The -remembrance of my first hour of love is closely bound to that of an -infamous den, of a couch over which strange kisses float. When, during -the May nights, I shall evoke my fiancée, I shall see arise a -half-clad, cynical girl, awaking and putting out her arms towards me. -This pale and stained spectre will be a participant in all my -love affairs. It will stand between my mouth and that of my bride, -claiming the kisses of my soiled lips. When I am asleep, it will visit -me in a horrible dream. When my sweetheart shall whisper in my ear some -delicious word, it will be there to tell me that it was the first to -talk thus to me. When I shall lean my head upon the shoulder of my -bride, it will present to me its shoulder on which I once reposed. Thus -it will ever freeze my heart with the accursed remembrance of our -betrothal. - -Yes, that night has sufficed to deprive me of supreme peace. My first -kiss has not awakened a soul. I have not felt the holy ignorance of pure -caresses, my timid lips have not found lips as timid as themselves. I -shall never experience that simple playfulness, that innocence of a -couple who know not the ways of the world. They tremble, embrace, and -weep for joy. But, as they kiss each other, hesitatingly, they realize -that they are one, that their hearts beat in unison, and that God has -joined them for the voyage of life. - -Then, when this knowledge has come, when they have in a kiss divined the -law of the Omnipotent, what must be their delight to owe to each other -this revelation, this infinitude of joy! They have participated in a -common blessing: they have put on their white robes and now are clad -like the cherubim. Mingling their very breath, smiling with the same -smile, they repose in their union. Holy hour, in which hearts beat more -freely, finding a heaven to which they can ascend. Sainted hour, in -which ignorant love suddenly learns the full measure of its strength, -believes itself the master of the universe and is intoxicated with its -first flight. Brothers, may God keep for you that hour, the remembrance -of which perfumes one's entire life. It will never be mine. - -Such is fate. It is rare that two pure hearts meet; nearly always one -heart of any twain can no longer give its ecstasy in its flower. To-day, -most young men of twenty like ourselves, who are eager to love, lacking -the power to force the bars and bolts of honest houses, hasten to the -wide open doors of boudoirs easier of access. When we ask upon what -shoulders we shall lean our heads, fathers hide their daughters and push -us into the gloom of the lanes. They cry out to us to respect their -children, who will some day be our wives; they prefer for them, instead -of our first caresses, those learned elsewhere. - -Hence how few keep their early love for their brides, how few, in the -desert of their youth, refuse the companions into whose society they are -driven by the singular behavior of parents! Some, foolish and wicked -lads, glory in their shame; they drag their ignoble flirtations before -the public eye. Others, when the soul awakes at the first summons of the -sweetheart, are filled with overwhelming sorrow on vainly interrogating -the horizon and at not knowing where to find the rightful claimant of -the heart. They go straight ahead, staring at the balconies, leaning -towards each youthful visage: the balconies are deserted, the youthful -visages remain veiled. Some night an arm is slipped within their own, a -voice makes them start. Already weary and despairing, unable to discover -the angel of love, they follow the spectre. - -Brothers, I do not wish to make an excuse for my fault, but let me say -that it is strange to cloister purity and permit dissipation to walk in -the glare of the sun with uplifted head. Let me deplore this distrust of -love, which creates a solitude around the lover, and this guarding of -virtue by vice, which causes a young man to encounter shame before -reaching the door of innocence. He who yields to temptation may well say -to his bride: "I am unworthy of you, but why did you not come to my -rescue? Why did you not meet me in the flowery fields, before all those -by-ways, each nook of which has its priestess? Why were you not the -first to greet my eyes, thus sparing yourself in sparing me?" - -On returning home this evening, I found upon the stairway the old woman -of the other night. She was toilsomely ascending in front of me, aiding -herself with the cord and placing both feet on each step. She turned -around. - -"Well, Monsieur, is your patient better?" she asked. "She no longer -shivers, I imagine, and you yourself do not seem to have suffered from -the cold. Ah! I well knew that a young man could take better care of a -handsome girl than an old woman." - -She laughed, showing her empty mouth. The politeness of this aged wretch -who had led a gay life made me blush. - -"You need not color so!" she added. "I have seen others as proud as -yourself enter without shame and depart singing. Youth loves to laugh, -and girls who play the wise one are fools. Ah! if I were only fifteen -again!" - -I had reached my door. She caught me by the arm as I was about to go in, -and continued: - -"I had flaxen hair then, and my cheeks were so fresh that my admirers -nicknamed me Pâquerette. If you had seen me, you would have been -astonished. I lived on the ground floor, in a nest of silk and gold. -Now, I lodge under the eaves. I have only to descend to go to the -cemetery. Ah! your friend Laurence is happy: she is as yet but in the -fourth story." - -So the girl was called Laurence. I had been ignorant even of her name. - - - - -CHAPTER VI - -DESPAIR - - -I resumed my work, but with repugnance, and was weary from the -commencement. Now that I had lifted a corner of the veil, I had neither -the courage to let it fall again nor the boldness to draw it away -altogether. When I seated myself at my table, I leaned sadly on my -elbows, letting the pen slip from my fingers and muttering: "What is the -good!" My intelligence seemed worn out; I dare not re-read the few -phrases I had written; I no longer felt that joy of the poet, whom a -happy rhyme fills with unreasoning and childish laughter. Scold me, -brothers, for limping verses are shorn of their power to keep me awake. - -My slim resources are diminishing. I can calculate the hour when -everything will be gone. I eat my bread, being almost in haste to finish -it that I may no longer see it melt away at each meal. I am surrendering -to want like a coward; the struggle for food terrifies me. - -Ah! how they lie who assert that poverty is the mother of talent! Let -them count those whom despair has made illustrious and those whom it has -slowly debased. When tears are caused by a heart wound, the wrinkles -they dig are beautiful and noble; but when hunger makes them flow, when -every night a baseness or a brutish task drys them, they furrow the face -frightfully, without imparting to it the sad serenity of age. - -No; since I am so poor that I may, perhaps, die to-morrow, I cannot -work. When the closet was full I had great courage. I felt the strength -to gain my bread. Now it is nearly empty and I am given over to -lassitude. It would be easier for me to endure hunger than to make the -smallest effort. - -I well know that I am cowardly and false to my vows. I know that I have -not the right already to take refuge in defeat. I am only twenty: I -cannot be weary of a world of which I am ignorant. Yesterday, I dreamed -of it as sweet and good. Is it a new dream which makes me form a bad -opinion of it to-day? - -Oh! brothers, my first step has been unfortunate: I am afraid to -advance. I will exhaust my suffering, shed all my tears, and my smiles -will return. I will work with a gayer heart to-morrow. - - - - -CHAPTER VII - -LAURENCE - - -Yesterday afternoon, I went to bed at five o'clock, in broad day, -forgetting the key in the lock. - -About midnight, as I saw in a dream a young blonde stretch out her arms -to me, a sound which I had heard in my sleep made me suddenly open my -eyes. My lamp was lighted. A woman, standing at the foot of the bed, was -looking at me. Her back was towards the light, and I thought, in the -confusion of awaking, that God had taken pity on me and transformed one -of my visions into reality. - -The woman approached. I recognized Laurence--Laurence with bare head, -wearing her handsome blue silk dress. Her uncovered shoulders were -purple with cold. Laurence had come to me. - -"My friend," said she, "I owe the landlord forty francs. He has just -refused me the key of my door and told me to seek shelter elsewhere. It -was too late to go out, and I thought of you." - -She sat down to unlace her boots. I did not understand, I did not wish -to understand. It seemed to me that this girl had stolen into my garret -to destroy me. The lamp, lighted I knew not how, the scantily-clad woman -in the middle of the icy chamber, terrified me. I was tempted to shout -for help. - -"We will live as you like," continued Laurence. "I am not embarrassing." - -I sat up to awaken myself completely. I began to understand, and what I -understood was horrible. I restrained a harsh word which had arisen to -my lips: abuse is repugnant to me, and I suffer when I insult any one. - -"Madame," I simply said, "I am poor." - -Laurence burst into a torrent of laughter. - -"You call me Madame!" she resumed. "Are you angry? What have I done to -you? I know you are poor--you showed me too much respect to be rich. -Well, we will be poor." - -"I can give you neither gewgaws nor enticing meals." - -"Do you think that they have often been given to me? People are not so -kind to poor girls! We roll in carriages only in novels. For one who -finds a dress ten die of hunger." - -"I eat but two very meagre meals a day; together, we could only have -one, and that of bread dried that we might consume less of it, with -simply water to drink." - -"You wish to frighten me. Have you not a father, in Paris or elsewhere, -who sends you books and clothes which you afterwards sell? We will eat -your hard bread and go to the ball to drink champagne." - -"No, I am alone in the world; I work for my living. I cannot associate -you with my poverty." - -Laurence stopped unlacing her boots. She sat still and thought. - -"Listen," she said, suddenly: "I am without bread and without a shelter. -You are young; you cannot conceive the extent of our perpetual distress, -even amid luxury and gayety. The street is our sole domicile; elsewhere -we are not at home. We are shown the door and we depart. Do you wish me -to depart? You have the right to drive me away, and I the resource of -going to sleep under some bridge." - -"I do not wish to drive you away. I tell you only that you have -ill-chosen your refuge. You can never accustom yourself to my sadness -and want." - -"Chosen! Ah! you think that we are permitted to choose! You may not -believe it, but I came here because I knew not where else to go. I -climbed the stairs furtively to pass the night upon a step. I leaned -against your door, and then it was that I thought of you. You have only -hard bread; I have not eaten anything since yesterday, and my smile is -so faint that it will not bring me a meal to-morrow. You see that I can -remain. I had just as well die here as in the street--besides, it is -less cold." - -"No; look further; you will find some one richer and gayer than I. Later -you will thank me for not having received you." - -Laurence arose. Her countenance had assumed an indescribable expression -of bitterness and irony. Her look was not supplicating: it was insolent -and cynical. She crossed her arms and stared me in the face. - -"Come," said she, "be frank: you do not want me. I am too ugly, too -miserable. I displease you, and you wish to get rid of me. You have no -money, and yet you want a pretty sweetheart. I was a fool not to think -of that. I ought to have said to myself that I was not worth even the -attention of poverty and that I must descend a round of the ladder. I am -thirsty, but I can drink from the gutters; I am hungry, but theft, -perhaps, will afford me nourishment. I thank you for your advice." - -She gathered her dress about her and walked towards the door. - -"Do you know," hissed she, "that we wretches are better than you honest -folks?" - -And she talked for a long while in a sharp voice. I cannot reproduce the -brutal force of her language. She said that she was the slave of our -caprices, that she laughed when we told her to laugh, and that we turned -our backs upon her later when we met her. Who forced us to seek her, who -pushed us into her company in the darkness, that we should show so much -contempt for her in broad day? I had once paid her a visit--why did I -not want to see her now? Had I forgotten that she was a woman and as -such was entitled even to my protection? The weak should always be -protected and sheltered by the strong. Now that she was famished, I took -a cruel delight in telling her that I had nothing for her to eat. Now -that she was houseless, I gloried in telling her that I refused to give -her a refuge. Because she was miserable I deemed it incumbent upon me to -make her more miserable still, for the truth was that I could do so with -impunity. I was afraid of her. She recalled the past too vividly. I -wished to deny her very existence. I was, indeed, a man to be admired, a -man with a noble, generous heart. - -She was silent for an instant. Then she resumed, with more energy: - -"You came to me and I received you as my husband. Now you deny that I -have any rights. You lie. I have all the rights of a wife. You gave them -to me, and you cannot undo what is done. You are mine and I am yours. -You repudiate me and you are a coward!" - -Laurence had opened the door. She hurled insults at me as she stood upon -the threshold, pale with anger. I leaped from the bed and caught her by -the arm. - -"You can remain," I said. "You are like ice. Lie down, cover yourself -up, and get warm." - -Will you believe, brothers, that I was weeping! It was not pity. The -tears flowed of themselves down my cheeks, though I felt only an immense -and vague sadness. - -The girl's words had made a deep impression on me. Her argument, the -force of which, doubtless, escaped her, seemed to me just and true. I -realized so perfectly that she had her rights, that I could not have -driven her away without thinking myself the incarnation of injustice. -She was a woman still, and I could not treat her like a lifeless object -which contempt and abandonment cannot affect. Setting all else aside, -humanity demanded that I should help her. The pure and the guilty are -both liable to come to us, some winter night, to tell us that they are -cold, that they are hungry, that they have need of us. Alas! we often -receive the one and thrust the other into the gloomy and inhospitable -street! - -This is because we have the cowardice of our vices. It is because we -would be terrified to have beside us a living remembrance and remorse. -It pleases us to live honored, and when we blush at the call of some -wretched creature, we deny her to explain our blushes by her impudence. -And we do this without deeming ourselves culpable, without asking -ourselves what justice this creature demands. Custom has made us -consider her a disgrace, and we are astonished that this disgrace speaks -and calls itself a woman. - -My friends, I trembled before the truth. I understood and I wept. The -question seemed to me simple, clear and self-evident. Laurence's words -had frightened without disgusting me. I had not dreamed of her coming; -but she came and I received her. I cannot, brothers, explain to you what -were my feelings. My mind of twenty years had accepted in their absolute -sense those words which admitted of no hesitation: "You are mine and I -am yours!" - -The next morning, when I awoke and found Laurence in my room, I felt my -heart ready to burst with anguish. The scene of the past night was -effaced. I no longer heard the true and rude words which had made me -receive the girl. The brutal fact alone remained. - -I looked at her as she slept. I saw her for the first time by daylight, -without her face having the strange beauty of suffering or despair. When -she thus appeared to me, ugly and prematurely old, plunged into a heavy, -brutish slumber, I trembled before that faded and common countenance -which I did not recognize. I could not comprehend how it was that I had -awakened in such company. I seemed as if I had come out of a dream, and -the reality proved so horrible that I had forgotten what had made me -accept it. - -But what difference did it make whether it was pity, justice or mercy. -The girl was there. Ah! brothers, can I shed enough tears, and will you -have sufficient courage to dry them! - - - - -CHAPTER VIII - -A MISSION FROM ON HIGH - - -Yes, I think as you do; I wish still to hope, I wish to make this fatal -union a source of noble aspirations. - -Formerly, when our thoughts drifted towards such unfortunate creatures -as Laurence, we felt only mercy and pity for them. We discerned the holy -task of redemption. We asked God to send us a dead soul, that we might, -by kindly and gentle ways, restore it to youth and purity. - -The faith of our sixteenth year, we thought, ought to make sinners -believe and bow the head. - -Then, we were Didier, pardoning Marion and acknowledging her as a wife -at the foot of the scaffold. We lifted the sinner to the height of our -tenderness. - -Well, now I can be Didier. Marion, as sinful as the day he pardoned her, -is here. She needs the white robe of purity, a hand to guide her -wavering steps aright, to steady her in the narrow and difficult path -which leads to the happiness of innocence. Her pale face requires a pure -atmosphere to restore to it the glow of youthful health. What we wished -for in our sainted hallucinations I have found without searching for it. - -Since Laurence has come to me, I wish to erase all the evil instincts of -her heart, to give it the healthful tone and freshness of mine. I will -be a priest for this poor wretch: I will lift her up, console and pardon -her. - -Who knows, brothers, but that this is a supreme trial, an appointed -task, that God has sent me! Perhaps, it is His wish, in charging me with -a soul, to develop all the latent strength of mine. Perhaps, He has -reserved for me the office of the strong, and does not fear to entrust -me with the reformation of a human being. I will be worthy of His -choice. - - - - -CHAPTER IX - -THE COURSE OF REFORMATION - - -I desire to make Laurence forget what she is, to deceive her in regard -to herself by the genuine friendship I show her. I speak to her only -with gentleness; my words are always grave and carefully chosen. - -Whenever she utters any of the slang of the street, I feign not to hear -her. I inculcate the lessons of innocence, and treat her as a sister who -has need of instruction. I oppose a calm and thoughtful life to her -noisy life of the past. I pretend to ignore that this existence is not -hers; I endeavor to be so natural in the imposition that, in the end, -she will doubt that she ever lived otherwise. - -Yesterday, in the street, a man insulted her. She was about to return -insult for insult. I did not give her time. I approached the man, who -was intoxicated, and caught him by the wrist, commanding him to respect -my wife. - -"Your wife!" cried he, ironically. "I know all about such wives!" - -Then, I shook him violently, repeating my order in a sterner tone. He -stammered out something and slunk away, begging pardon. Laurence -silently resumed my arm, apparently confused by the title of wife which -I had bestowed upon her. - -I well know that too much austerity is not advisable. I do not hope for -a sudden return to good; I wish to manage a skilful and gradual -transition, which shall prevent her poor, sick eyes from being wounded -by the light. There lies the whole difficulty of the task. - -I have noticed that such girls as Laurence, women before their time, -long keep the thoughtlessness and childishness of the infant. They are -wearied and would yet willingly play with the doll. A trifle amuses -them, makes them burst out laughing; they find again, unconsciously, the -astonishment and caressing babble of little girls of five. I have taken -advantage of this observation. I give Laurence gewgaws which make us -great friends for an hour. - -You cannot imagine the deep emotion this strange education has awakened -in me. When I think I have made Laurence's dead heart beat, I am tempted -to kneel and thank God. Without doubt, I exaggerate the sanctity of my -mission. I say to myself that the love of a pure creature would sanctify -me less than the devotion this poor girl will some day feel for me. - -That day is yet afar off. My companion is embarrassed by my respect for -her. She, whom insults do not affect, colors to the roots of her hair -when I talk to her in a brotherly fashion, intent upon my good work. -Sometimes, I see her hesitate before answering me, apparently doubting -that it was to her I had spoken. She is amazed at not being reproached, -and seems ill at ease because of my delicate attentions. The mask of -innocence, which I have forced her to put on, worries her: she knows not -how to bear esteem. Often I surprise a smile on her lips; she must think -that I am mocking her, and this smile seems to ask me to kindly stop -joking. - -In the evening, at bed-time, she puts out the candle before undressing; -she draws over her the corners of the coverings, and takes advantage of -my sleep to leap from her couch in the morning. When she talks, she -selects her words; following my example, she avoids being familiar with -me. - -I cannot tell why these precautions disturb me: I see in them more of -constraint than true repentance. I feel that she acts and talks as she -does out of fear of displeasing me, but that, so far as she herself is -concerned, she is indifferent about her behavior and would as soon talk -the language of the markets as not. She cannot have acquired so quickly -a knowledge of her errors. I tell you, brothers, Laurence is afraid of -me: such is the result of a week of respect. - -As soon as she rises, she makes a grand toilet; she runs to the -looking-glass and forgets herself there for an hour. She is in haste to -repair the disorders of the night. Her thin locks are let fall, showing -bare places on her head; her cheeks, from which the rouge has been -rubbed, are pale and faded. She knows that she no longer has her -borrowed youth, and is afraid that I will notice its absence should I -turn my gaze upon her. The poor girl, who has lived beneath a coat of -paint, fears lest I should drive her away when I see her without it. She -combs her hair laboriously, puffing out her locks and skilfully -concealing the vacant spots left by those which are gone; she blackens -her eyelashes, whitens her shoulders and reddens her lips. Meanwhile I -keep my back turned towards her, feigning to see nothing of all this. -Then, when she has painted her face and thinks herself sufficiently -young and beautiful, she comes to me smilingly. She is calmer, feeling -certain that she is safe. She offers herself fearlessly to my eyes. She -forgets that I cannot be deceived by the pretty colors she has put on, -and seems to think that when I see them I am satisfied. - -I told her in plain words that I preferred fresh water to pomades and -cosmetics. I even went so far as to add that I liked her premature -wrinkles better than the greasy and shining mask she put on her -countenance every day. She did not understand. She blushed, thinking -that I was reproaching her with her ugliness, and since then she has -made increased efforts not to look like herself. - -Thus combed and rouged, wrapped in her blue silk dress, she drags -herself from chair to chair, careless and wearied. Not daring to stir -for fear of deranging a fold of her skirt, she generally remains seated -the rest of the day. She crosses her hands, and, with her eyes open, -falls into a sort of waking sleep. Sometimes, she rises and walks to the -window; there she leans her forehead against the icy panes and resumes -her doze. - -She was active enough before she became my companion. The agitated life -she then led gave her a feverish ardor; her idleness was noisy and -joyfully accepted the rude tasks set for it. Now, sharing my calm and -studious existence, she has all the laziness of peace without its gentle -and regular work. - -I must, before everything else, cure her of carelessness and weariness. -I plainly see that she regrets the strife, confusion and excitement of -her early days, but she is by nature so devoid of energy that she is -afraid to regret them openly. I have told you, brothers, that she fears -me. She does not fear my anger, but she stands in terror of the unknown -being whom she cannot comprehend. She vaguely seizes my wishes and bows -before them, ignorant of their true meaning. Hence she is circumspect in -her conduct without being repentant, and remains serious and tranquil -without ceasing to be idle and lazy. Hence also she thinks that she -cannot refuse my esteem, and, though she is sometimes amazed at it, she -never seeks to be worthy of it. - - - - -CHAPTER X - -THE EMBROIDERY STRIP - - -I suffered to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought that -toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at the -accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While the -needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers gives -to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her work has I -know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and makes haste. -Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the workwoman of to-day has -found again the active serenity of the innocent. Speak to her heart, it -will answer you. - -Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she -should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed to me -that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or other and -she mingling her dream with the thread of her embroidery, would unite us -in a gentler and deeper friendship. She accepted this idea of work as -she accepts each one of my wishes, with a passive obedience, a singular -mixture of indifference and resignation. - -After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing to -trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until -midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning. I -watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad expression -had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and regularly, told me -that her body alone was working, her mind taking no part in the task. - -The old lady pronounced the muslin badly embroidered; she declared to me -that it was the work of a poor embroiderer, and that I never could find -any one who would be satisfied with such long stitches and so little -grace. I had feared this. The poor girl, having possessed jewels at -fifteen, could not have had much experience with the needle. -Fortunately, I sought in her work the slow cure of her heart, and not -the skill of her fingers or the profit of her toil. In order not to give -her back to idleness by imposing upon her a task myself, I resolved to -hide from her the discouraging refusal of the old lady to employ her -further. - -I bought a stamped embroidery strip as I walked home. On entering, I -told her that her work had given satisfaction and that she had been -entrusted with more. Then, I handed her the few sous I had left, telling -her I had received them as her pay. I knew that on the morrow, perhaps, -I could not repeat this, and I regretted it. I desired to make her love -the savor of bread honestly earned. - -Laurence took the money without disturbing herself about the evening -meal. She hastened away to purchase a row of velvet-covered buttons for -her blue dress, which was already torn and stained. Never had I seen her -so active; a quarter of an hour sufficed for her to sew on these -buttons. She made a grand toilet, then admired herself. When night came -on, she was still walking back and forth in the chamber, looking at her -new buttons. As I lighted the lamp, I told her gently to go to work. She -did not seem to understand me. I repeated my words, and then she sat -down roughly, angrily seizing the embroidery strip. My heart was filled -with sorrow. - -"Laurence," said I, "it is not my wish to force you to work; put aside -your needle, if you feel inclined to do nothing. I have not the right to -impose a task upon you. You are free to be good or bad." - -"No, no," she replied, "you want me to toil like a slave. I understand -that I must pay for my food and my share of the rent. I might even pay -your part, too, by working later at night." - -"Laurence!" cried I, sadly. "Go, poor girl, and be happy. You shall not -touch a needle again. Give me that embroidery strip." - -And I threw the muslin into the fire. I saw it burn, regretting my -hastiness. I had been unable to control my anguish, and was overwhelmed -at the thought that Laurence was escaping from me. I had restored her to -idleness. I trembled as I thought of the outrageous accusation she had -made against me--that I wanted the money she might earn; I realized that -it was no longer possible for me to advise her to work. So, it was all -over; a single outburst on her part had sufficed to make me withdraw -from her the means of redemption. - -Laurence was not in the least surprised at my sudden rage. I have told -you that she more readily accepts anger than affection. She even smiled -at conquering what she called my weariness. Then she crossed her hands, -happy in her idleness. - -As I stirred the warm cinders on the hearth, I sadly asked myself what -word, what sentiment, could awaken her stupefied soul! I was -horror-stricken that I had not yet been able to restore to her the -innocence of her childhood. I would have preferred her ignorant, eager -to know. I was filled with despair at this sad indifference, this night -satisfied with its gloom, and so dense that it refused to admit the -light. Vainly had I knocked at Laurence's heart: no answer had been -returned to me. I was tempted to believe that death had passed over it -and had dried up all its fibres. But a single quiver and I should have -thought the girl saved. - -But what was to be done with this nothingness, this desolated creature, -this insensible marble which affection could not animate? Statues -frighten me: they stare without seeing and have no intellect to -understand. - -Then, I said to myself that, perhaps, it was my fault if I could not -make Laurence understand me. Didier loved Marion; he did not seek to -save a soul--he simply loved--and yet he effected the miracle which my -reason and kindness had sought in vain to accomplish. A heart awakes -only at the voice of a heart. Love is the holy baptism which of itself, -without the faith, without the science of good, remits every sin. - -I do not love Laurence. That cold and wearied girl causes me only -disgust. - -Her voice and gestures seem insults in my eyes; her entire form wounds -me. Deprived of every delicacy of mind, she makes the kindest word -odious, and thrusts an outrage into each one of her smiles. In her -everything becomes bad. - -I strove to feign tenderness and approached her. She sat motionless, -leaning towards the hearth, and allowed me to take her cold and inert -hands. Then, I drew her near me. She lifted her head, questioning me -with a look. Beneath that look I recoiled, repulsing her. - -"Well, what do you want?" she asked. - -What did I want! My lips were open to cry to her: "I want you to take -off that wretched silk dress and put on honest calico. I want you to -cease pining after your past career. I want you to listen to me and -understand what I say. I want you to turn your thoughts towards -innocence and goodness. I want to make you a worthy woman." - -But, brothers, I did not say this. If I had loved her, I should without -doubt have spoken, and, perhaps, she would have understood me. - - - - -CHAPTER XI - -ON THE WAY TO THE BALL - - -I think I have been lacking both in skill and prudence. I was in too -great haste; I overshot the mark, without asking Laurence if she -understood me. How can I, who am ignorant of life, teach its science? -What means do I know how to employ, except the systems, the rules of -conduct, dreamed of at sixteen, beautiful in theory, but absurd in -practice? Is it enough for me to love the good, to stretch towards an -ideal of virtue vague aspirations, the aim of which is itself uncertain? -When reality is before me, I know how little these desires take -practical shape, how powerless I am in the struggle it offers me. I -shall never know how either to bind or conquer it, ignorant as I am of -the way in which to seize it and unable even to avow to myself what -victory I demand. A voice cries out in me that I do not want the truth, -that I do not desire to change it, to transform what is evil in my sight -into good. Let the world which exists stand; I have the audacity to wish -to create a new land, without making use of the wrecks of the old. -Hence, having no solid foundation, the scaffolding of my dreams crumbles -at the slightest shock. I am only a useless thinker, a platonic lover of -the good nursed by vain reveries, whose power vanishes as soon as he -touches the earth. - -Brothers, it would be easier for me to give Laurence wings than to give -her a woman's heart. - -We are but grown up children. We do not know what to do with that -sublime reality, which comes to us from God and which we spoil at -pleasure by our dreams. We are so awkward in living, that life, for this -reason, becomes bad. Let us learn how to live and evil will disappear. -If I possessed the great art of the real, if I had any conception of a -human paradise, if I could distinguish the chimera from the possible, I -could talk and Laurence would understand me. I would know how to take -possession of her again and set her an example to follow. The delicate -science which revealed to me the causes of her errors would find a -remedy for each wound of her heart. But what can I do when my ignorance -erects a barrier between her and me? I am the dream, she is the reality. -We shall trudge on side by side without ever meeting, and, our journey -finished, she will not have understood me, I will not have comprehended -her. - -I have decided to retrace my steps, in order to take Laurence such as -she is and let her follow the road for which her human feet are fitted. -I have resolved to study life with her, to descend that we may rise -together. Since I am compelled to undertake this rough and disagreeable -task, it is on the lowest step that I desire to start. - -Would it not be a recompense great enough if I induced her to give me -all the love of which she is capable? Brothers, I have a well grounded -fear that our dreams are nothing but deceptions; I realize how weak and -puerile they are in the presence of a reality of which I am vaguely -conscious. There are days in which, further off than the sunlight and -the perfumes, further off than those dim visions which I cannot turn to -account, I catch a glimpse of the bold outlines of what is. And I -comprehend that this is life, action and truth, while, in the -surroundings which I have created for myself, move people strange to -man, vain shadows whose eyes do not see me, whose lips cannot speak to -me. The child can be pleased with these cold and mute friends; afraid of -life, it takes refuge in that which does not live. But we men should not -be satisfied with this eternal nothingness. Our arms are made for work. - -Last night, as I was out walking with Laurence, we met a herd of -maskers, packed into a carriage and going to the ball, intoxicated, in -disorder, making a great noise. It is January, the most terrible of all -the months. Poor Laurence was vastly moved by the cries of her kind. She -smiled upon them, and turned that she might see them as long as -possible. It was her former gayety which was passing by, her -carelessness, her mad life so sharp that she could not forget its biting -joys. She returned home sadder than ever and went to bed, sick of -silence and solitude. - -This morning, I sold some of my clothes and hired a costume for -Laurence. I announced to her that we would go to the ball in the -evening. She threw herself upon my neck; then, she took possession of -the costume and forgot me. She examined each ribbon, each spangle; -impatient to deck herself, she threw the soiled satin over her -shoulders, intoxicating herself with the rustle of the stuff. Sometimes -she turned, thanking me with a smile. I realized that she had never -before loved me so much, and I could scarcely keep my hands from -snatching the gewgaw which had brought me the esteem I had failed to -acquire with all my kindness. - -At last, I had made myself understood. I had ceased to be an unknown -being in her eyes, a frightful compound of austerity and weariness. I -was going to the ball like all the rest; like them, I hired costumes and -amused my friends. I was a charming fellow and, like everybody else, -loved buxom shoulders, cries and oaths. Ah! what joy! My wisdom was a -sham! - -Laurence felt herself in a country with which she was acquainted; she -was no longer afraid; she had resumed her freedom of manner and gave -vent to bursts of hearty laughter. Her familiar words, her easy -gestures, filled her with satisfaction. She was perfectly at home in her -present atmosphere. - -This was what I wished, but I had hoped that a month of tranquillity, -even though it had not succeeded in reforming her, had at least led her -to forget somewhat her former ways. I had imagined that, when the mask -fell, the face it would disclose would have less pallor about the lips -and more blushes upon the cheeks. I was mistaken. The mask fallen, I had -before me the same faded features, the same thick and noisy laugh. As -this woman was when she entered my mansarde, rough, vulgar and cynical, -so I again found her, after I had for a month protested against the -infamy of her past life, silently to be sure, but every day. She had -learned nothing, she had forgotten nothing. If her eyes shone with a new -expression, it was only because of the miserable joy she felt on seeing -that I seemed, at last, to have come down to her level. In view of this -strange result, I asked myself if it would not be simply a waste of time -to try again. I had wished for a real Laurence, and this Laurence, -through whom ran a breath of life, terrified me more, perhaps, than the -mournful creature of the past month. But the struggle promised to be so -sharp that I heard, in the depths of my being, my audacity of twenty -revolt at my repugnance and my fright. - -As six o'clock struck, although the ball would not begin until midnight, -Laurence began to make her toilet. Soon the chamber was in complete -disorder: water, splashing from the wash-basin and dripping from the wet -towels, flooded the floor; soap lather, fallen from Laurence's hands, -spread out upon the planks in whitish patches; the comb was on the floor -near the hair brush, and various articles of clothing, forgotten upon -the chairs, on the mantelpiece and in the corners, were soaking amid -pools of water. Laurence, to be more at her ease, had squatted down. She -was washing herself energetically, throwing handfuls of water in her -face and upon her shoulders. Despite this deluge, the soap, covered with -dust, left broad streaks of dirt on her skin. At this she was in -despair. Finally, she emptied the entire contents of the wash-basin over -her. - -Then she arose, shivering, her shoulders red, and began to use the -towel. - -The key had remained in the lock of the door. As Laurence was rubbing -her neck with the icy towel, Pâquerette came in. The old woman visited -us occasionally to get a stick or two from the hearth with which to -kindle her fire, and pity prevented me from driving her off in disgust. - -"Ah! my dear," cried Laurence to her, "come and help me a little. I'm -tired of this wretched rubbing." - -Pâquerette took the towel, and began to rub with all the strength of -her wasted arms. She did not seem astonished at either the disorder of -the chamber or Laurence's wholesale preparations for the ball. She -quietly passed her stiff hands over the girl's fresh looking shoulders, -envying their whiteness, thinking of the pleasures of the past. -Laurence, her head half turned around, smiled upon her and shivered by -fits. - -"Where are you going, my child?" at last asked the horrible old woman. - -"Claude has invited me to go to the ball." - -"Ah! that's as it should be, Monsieur," resumed Pâquerette, ceasing to -ply the towel and turning towards me. - -Then, taking up a dry towel, she continued, as she affectionately wiped -Laurence's arms: - -"I said to myself only this morning that you would soon die of sadness, -if you persisted in always remaining shut up in this chamber. Laurence -is a good girl, Monsieur, a very good girl and a kind-hearted and -indulgent one into the bargain. I know more than one such who would have -quitted you twenty times, if subjected to the same treatment that -Laurence has undergone for the past month. She is a miracle of patience -and devotion to have remained. There, my child, you are as dry as a bone -and as beautiful as a butterfly. You will have hosts of handsome and -attentive gallants at the ball to-night! Are you jealous, Claude?" - -I could not answer her. I smiled mechanically, and continued to gaze -upon the strange scene. A single engrossing recollection, which -unceasingly presented itself to my mind, prevented me from hearing what -the old woman said. It was that of an antiquated engraving, which I had -seen I know not where, representing Venus at her toilet, bathed by -nymphs, caressed by little Cupids. The goddess has abandoned herself to -the arms of her women, as young and beautiful as herself; the foam of -the waves partially covers them, and, on the shore, an old faun stands -lost in mute admiration and astonishment at the sight of so much youth -and freshness. - -"He is jealous, he is jealous!" cried Pâquerette, with a sharp laugh, -broken by hiccoughs. "So much the better for you, my girl; he will make -you more presents and it will be much easier for you to fool him. I once -had an admirer, who strongly resembled you, Monsieur. He was a trifle -shorter, I think, but he had the same eyes, the same mouth; he even wore -his hair combed back, as you do. He adored me, overwhelmed me with -attention and followed me everywhere, but, nevertheless, I dismissed him -at the end of a week." - -While Pâquerette was chattering, Laurence had dressed herself. She -combed her hair, standing before the looking-glass, serious and -thoughtful. The old woman stood beside her, as straight as a lance; she -had ceased to babble, and was enviously contemplating the packages of -rouge, and the vials of aromatic oils, common perfumery bought at a low -price at stands in the open air. The two women having forgotten me, I -sat down in a corner. - -I saw their images in the looking-glass. Both the faces, despite the -wrinkles of the one and the relative freshness of the other, seemed to -me to have the same expression of degradation and baseness. The same -looks stamped with dissipation, the same pale lips, were common to each. -One could hardly read upon their faded cheeks the number of years which -separated their ages. They were equally old in sin. For an instant I -thought that I was endeavoring to reform Pâquerette instead of -Laurence, and I closed my eyes to banish her from my sight. - -They had forgotten that I existed. Occasionally they spoke in whispers. -Laurence swore, striking her foot violently on the floor, when one of -her rebellious locks refused to curl. Then the old woman spoke of her -own flaxen tresses of other days; she described the style of coiffure of -the girls of her time, and, to make herself better understood, arranged -in her turn her gray locks before the looking-glass. Then followed long -eulogies upon my companion's youth, endless lamentations in regard to -the weariness of old age. Pâquerette said that her wrinkles had come to -her long before she was ready for them, and that she greatly regretted -not having enjoyed herself more when she was twenty. Now, she must live -slowly in silence and gloom, having at heart a jealous admiration for -those who could yet grow old. - -Laurence listened, but only asked questions, demanding if such and such -a curl became her, seeking for new praises. Then, when her locks, so -long toiled over, had been satisfactorily arranged, her face was to be -painted. Pâquerette wished to put the finishing touch to the -masterpiece. She took red and blue pigments upon little balls of -wadding, and passed them along the cheeks and around the eyes of the -young woman. She enlarged her eyelids, purified her forehead and gave -health to her lips. And, like us, poor dreamers, who daub reality with -discordant colors and afterwards cry out that we have made a creation, -she was amazed at her work, without seeing that her trembling hand had -confused the features, exaggerated the red of the lips and made the -eyelids too large. Beneath her fingers Laurence's visage had horribly -changed, I thought. It had acquired in spots dull and earthy tints, -while in other spots, which had been rubbed with ointment put on to fix -the rouge, it shone with tremendous brilliancy. The stretched and -irritated skin grimaced; the entire face, at once red and faded, had the -silly smile of pasteboard dolls. The tones were so loud and so false -that they wounded the sight. - -Laurence, straight and motionless, her glance partially turned towards -the looking-glass, complacently allowed herself to be rejuvenated. She -scratched off with her finger-nail the touches which seemed to her too -prominent. Leaning forward, she gravely studied for several seconds each -of the beauties which Pâquerette gave her. - -The work finished, the old woman drew back a few paces the better to -scrutinize what she had done and note its effect. Then, satisfied, she -exclaimed: - -"Ah! my child, you look like a girl of fifteen!" - -Laurence smiled contentedly. Both of these creatures were sincere; they -frankly admired, not doubting in the least that a miracle had been -worked. Then, they remembered me. Laurence, proud of the restored charms -of her fifteenth year, came to embrace me, wishing to dazzle my eyes -with her newly-acquired beauty. Her bare shoulders had the fresh and -peculiar odor of a person who has just come out of a bath. At the touch -of her cold lips, damp with rouge, I shivered with disgust. - -"Bear me in mind, my child," said Pâquerette, as she was leaving the -room. "Old women like sweetmeats." - -We had yet two full hours to wait. I have no remembrance of any -weariness so terrible. This waiting for a pleasure which clashed with -all my tastes was indescribably uncomfortable and sad, and Laurence's -impatience retarded still more for me the slow march of the minutes. - -She was seated upon the bed, in her costume of pink satin ornamented -with gilt spangles; this tinsel had the strangest effect in the world, -brought into bold relief by the smoky paper on the chamber walls. The -lamp burned dimly, the silence was broken only by the dashing of the -rain against the window panes. Brothers, I do not know what demon then -took possession of me, but I must admit to you, who know all my thoughts -and feelings, that, sitting in the presence of that woman, abandoned by -my cherished ideas, I caught myself wishing Laurence young and -beautiful; I desired the power to transform my miserable mansarde into a -delicious and mysterious retreat, a veritable nest for ideal happiness, -with every surrounding of luxury and magnificence. For the moment, I -lost all higher aspirations. What disgusted me was no longer vice, but -ugliness and poverty. - -At last, I went for a carriage and we started for the ball. Despite the -lateness of the hour, the streets were still full of noise and light. -Bursts of laughter came from every corner, groups of drunkards and women -were in each drinking house. Nothing could be more odious to see than -the people running in the mud, and elbowing each other amid the refrains -of bacchanalian songs. Laurence, leaning out of the carriage window, -laughed heartily at this disgusting joy. She called to the passers-by, -seeking insult, happy at being able to participate in a war of rough -words. As I remained mute, she said to me: - -"Well! what on earth are you doing? Do you intend to go to sleep while -you are taking me to the ball?" - -I leaned out of the window in my turn; I sought for some one to insult. -I would willingly have struck one of those brutes who were amused by -such a spectacle as I then saw. Before me, upon the sidewalk, stood a -tall young man with his shirt unbuttoned at the throat; a circle of -laughers surrounded him, applauding each one of the many oaths he -uttered. I shook my fist menacingly at him, for I was terribly -exasperated. I hurled at him, as we went along, the most offensive -epithets I could summon up. - -"And your wife!" cried he, in reply. "Put her out here a little while, -that we may pay her our compliments!" - -The rough words of this man changed my anger into an indescribable -sadness. I closed the window and leaned my forehead against the damp -glass, leaving Laurence to her wretched pleasure. I was, so to speak, -rocked by the cries of the crowd and the hollow roll of the vehicle. I -saw, with the vague sight of a dream, the passers flee behind me, -strange shadows which lengthened and vanished without presenting any -meaning to my mind. And, in this din, in this quick succession of -darkness and light, I remember that I forgot everything for an instant, -and gazed dreamily into the pools of water and mud between the -pavements, upon which the lamps of the shops cast rapid reflections. - -It was thus that we reached the ball-room. - -To-morrow, brothers, I will tell you the rest. I cannot write everything -now. - - - - -CHAPTER XII - -THE PUBLIC BALL - - -Oh! my remembrances, faithful companions, I cannot take a step in this -world but you rise before me! When, with Laurence on my arm, I cast from -a gallery a rapid glance around the ball-room full of noise and light, I -saw again, in a sudden and sad vision, the smooth, stone-paved floor -upon which the girls of Provence dance, in the evening, to the music of -the fife and tambourine! How we used to ridicule them! The peasant -girls, not those of our dreams, those who had the faces and the hearts -of queens, but poor creatures whom the ardent soil had faded before -their time, seemed to us to bound heavily, casting us silly smiles as -they lumbered by. We closed our eyes against reality. We saw, beyond the -horizon, immense palaces, halls paved with marble, with lofty and gilded -roofs, filled with a whole nation of young women, who danced with the -utmost harmony, in a cloud of lace spangled with diamonds. Truly, we -were foolish children. Now, brothers, the peasant girls have taken -vengeance for our disdain. - -I beheld, from the gallery in which I found myself, a sort of oblong -hall, of quite large dimensions, ornamented with faded paintings and -gilding. A fine dust, raised by the dancers' feet, ascended slowly from -the floor, like a mist, and filled the place. The bright flames of the -gas looked red in this cloud; everything had a vague appearance, a -strange hue of old copper. At the further end of the hall, galloped a -frightful circle of creatures who could not be seen distinctly; the fury -of their movements seemed to communicate itself to the thick and -nauseous air; in the whirl, I thought I saw the walls tremble and turn -with the crowd. A piercing clamor, accompanied by a sort of prolonged -roll, drowned the music of the orchestra. - -I cannot describe to you the first impressions produced on me by this -place, in which each thing had in my eyes a special and unknown life. -The shrill noises, the sonorous laughter bursting out like sobs, the -frightful contortions of the furious dancers, the biting and suffocating -odors, all came to me in a sharp sensation which filled my being with a -vague terror, with which was mingled a sad pleasure. I could not laugh, -for I felt my throat close, and yet I was unable to turn away my head, -so delirious was the joy I experienced amid my suffering. I now -understand the fascination of these exciting soirées. At the first -sight one trembles, one refuses to lend himself to the terrible gayety; -then intoxication comes, and, with bewildered brain, one abandons -himself to the gulf. Common souls are soon won over. Those who have the -strength of their dreams--dare I, brothers, count myself among -them?--revolt, and, in their frankness, regret the humble dancing-floors -of Provence upon which the awkward and lumbering peasant girls dance in -the fresh, clear night. - -From the gallery in which we were, we could see only the general effect -of the scene. We quitted it, descending the stairways and reaching the -main floor by passing through narrow and dark passages. Arrived in the -ball-room, we were forced to follow a slender path contrived between the -walls and the quadrilles. All my pleasure was gone; I now felt only -disgust. The women were clad in tatters, in ragged silks spangled with -dirty brass; their bare shoulders were dripping with perspiration; -paint, in broad pools, in long streaks, reddened and blued their skin. -One of them, with an inflamed visage and a hoarse voice, turned towards -me, gesticulating and shouting. What a strange, hideous face she had! I -shall see it again in my bad dreams! - -I do not remember having noticed the men. They were, it seems to me, for -the most part, standing straight and motionless, looking with great -calmness at the tumultuous bounds of the women. I cannot tell you what -kind of people they were, or if they appeared to comprehend the extent -of their idiocy. - -Weary already, feeling my head ready to split, I reached a table, -dragging Laurence after me. We sat down, and I drank what the waiter -brought me, studying my companion. - -Laurence, at her entrance, had smiled, quivering with enjoyment, -breathing her fill of that vitiated air so sweet to her lips. Her smile -soon vanished and her countenance resumed its mournful look. Sometimes, -she put out her arm and touched the hand of a woman or a man who passed. -On such occasions her smile reappeared for a few seconds, and then -vanished again. Partially thrown back upon her chair, her feet resting -on a small bench, she rocked herself slowly, gazing into the ball-room -with an air at once attentive and wearied. She looked from group to -group in silence, turning her head at each new noise, seeming to wish to -let nothing escape her. But there was so much fatigue in her attention -that I asked myself, as I saw her pale and desolate face, what singular -pleasure she could be experiencing to show so little of it. - -Twice, thinking that my presence was a clog to her, I told her to leave -me if she liked, to mingle with and greet her friends, to dance in -perfect freedom. - -"Why should I get up?" she tranquilly answered me. "I am very -comfortable and perfectly satisfied. Are you weary of having me beside -you?" - -It was thus that we passed five hours, face to face, in a corner of the -ball-room, I unconsciously sketching men's figures on the marble top of -the table with a few drops of liquor spilled from a decanter, she -maintaining despairing gravity and silence, her hands crossed upon her -lap. I no longer had the least comprehension of what was going on around -me. As the ball was drawing towards its close, I felt more like -suffocating than ever. This was the last sensation that I remember -having experienced. When the final galop drew me from this species of -deep stupor, I saw Laurence arise; she swore and kicked aside the little -bench, which had become entangled among her skirts; then, she took my -arm, and we made a final tour of the ball-room before departing. Upon -the threshold, Laurence turned with a yawn, casting a last look at the -disordered circle of dancers who were vociferating in the midst of a -frightful din. - -When we reached the street, an icy blast, which struck me in the face, -gave me a delicious feeling. I felt that I was restored to the good, to -free and energetic life; the intoxication which had possessed me was -driven away, and, beneath the drizzling winter rain, I had an instant of -ineffable pleasure, casting from me all the disgusts of the mad night. I -comprehended the wretchedness I had left behind me; I would have -preferred to go home on foot through the streets, allowing the glacial -water to penetrate me and renew my being. - -Laurence shivered at my side. She had fastened her handkerchief over her -bare shoulders; not daring to venture on, she looked in a despairing way -at the sombre sky and at the gutters which were overflowing upon the -pavements. The poor girl thought the wintry sky capable only of giving -her inflammation of the lungs. - -I had two francs left. I hailed a fiacre and helped Laurence into it. -She gathered herself up in one of the corners and there sat silently, -without ceasing to shiver. I saw her on my left, like a patch of -tarnished white. Sometimes, a drop of water, which had remained upon her -garments, rolled as far as my hand. - -After an instant had elapsed, a sort of drowsiness seized upon me and -sleep closed my eyes. As I dozed, I seemed to hear the din of the ball; -the jolts of the vehicle whirled me away as in a furious dance, and the -axle-trees, with their sharp noise, played those airs which all night -long had filled my ears. When, feverish and excited, I opened my eyes, I -stared stupidly at the sides of the narrow box which seemed to me full -of music and tumult. Then, I felt a biting sensation of cold; finding -beneath my hand the icy hand of Laurence, I remembered where I had been -and realized where I was. Without, the rain was still falling; the -flickering lights fled rapidly behind us. - -Fatigue once more made me close my eyes, and again I was drawn into the -midst of gigantic circles of dancers, incessantly renewed. It seems to -me now that I remember vaguely having danced thus for long hours. I -found myself nailed to a bench, beside a shivering woman, and I whirled -I know not how in a sort of box which rolled with a tremendous noise at -the bottom of a glacial gulf. - -Having ascended to my chamber, while Laurence was taking off her -costume, I threw all my remaining wood upon the fire, which was faintly -burning upon the hearth. Then, I hastened to bed, happy as a child to -find myself again amid my poverty, gazing with loving glances at the -broad lights and shadows which the flames of the hearth caused to dance -up and down along my poor walls. Calmness had taken possession of me -from the moment I crossed the threshold of this retired chamber. With my -head upon the pillow, at peace and almost smiling, I gazed at my -companion who, standing pensively before the fire, was removing her -garments one by one. - -She soon came to me, and sat down at my feet on the edge of the bed. -Breaking, at last, the silence which she had maintained until then, she -began to talk with extreme volubility. - -Enveloped in an old wrapper, with her feet drawn up under her and her -hands clasped in front of her knees, she indulged in loud bursts of -laughter, throwing her head backwards. She seemed to be in haste to -throw off all the words, all the gayety, she had amassed. For nearly a -whole hour she entertained me with a recital of the thousand incidents -of the ball. She had seen everything, heard everything. She gave vent to -exclamations without end, sudden joys, hurried and tumultuous -reminiscences. A man had slipped in such a way, a woman had sworn in -such another way; Jeanne wore a milkmaid's costume which became her -marvellously; Louise looked hideous as a Scotch lassie; as to Edouard, -he had certainly pawned his watch that very morning. And she rattled on, -always finding some new detail, repeating the same circumstance ten -times rather than pause. Then, shivering with cold, she finally went to -bed. She asserted that she had never before been so much amused at a -ball, and made me promise to take her to another as soon as I possibly -could. She fell asleep thus, while still talking to me, laughing amid -her slumber. - -This sudden awakening to life, this flood of feverish words, strangely -astonished me. I could not then and I cannot now explain to myself the -coldness and indolence of this girl amid the tumult of the night, and -her bursts of gayety, her chatter of the morning in our sad and silent -chamber. Why had she torn from me the promise to take her as soon and as -often as possible to these balls, where she laughed so little and did -not dance at all? Besides, if she were acting in good faith, what was -that singular joy which had manifested itself by silence and ill-humor -during the soirée, and, later, had broken out in thick and delighted -laughter? - -Oh! what an unknown world is that of the flesh and dissipation, in which -I find food for amazement at every step! I dare not as yet critically -examine all this wretchedness, the motives of this puzzling woman, cold -in her feelings, weary and half asleep amid her joys! I took her to the -ball to save her, but she had come back from it more terrible, more -impenetrable than ever! - - - - -CHAPTER XIII - -AN ACCEPTANCE OF REALITY - - -You complain of my silence; you are uneasy, and ask me what new sorrows -have made the pen fall from my fingers. - -Brothers, my new sorrows are caused by the fact that our ridiculous -fancies of childhood are being dissipated one by one. This adieu to -early hopes has, in its salutary harshness, the most profound -bitterness. I feel myself becoming a man; I weep over my departing -weaknesses, taking, at the same time, a great pride in the strength I am -acquiring. - -Ah! how silly youth would be, if it had not its beautiful simplicity! -The foolishness upon the lips of the child is an adorable ignorance by -which men are quietly amused. Scarcely a month ago, I was a simpleton; -I spoke to you innocently of the redemption of women. Verily, to have -heard me, an old man would at once have smiled his sweetest smile and -ironically shaken his head: he would have given the smile to the young -soul who had faith in entire perfection, and addressed the shake of the -head to the absurd youth who was boldly attempting the miracle which the -Saviour alone has the power to work. - -Enough of deceptions! The brutal truth has strange delights for those -who are tormented by the problem of life; they are weary of those hopes -which mothers bequeath to their children, and which, slow to vanish, -abandon them one by one, lengthening their martyrdom. As for me, I -prefer, even should I suffer from having all my illusions torn from me -in a day, to see clearly into this world of dissipation to the depths of -which I have descended. - -No doubt, some once sinful women who have sincerely repented are met -with. Women who have strayed from the right path have seen the error of -their ways, have reformed, have found husbands and have been pardoned. -But such things are miracles. The laws common to short-sighted humanity -seem to ordain that wretched women, who have once forgotten themselves, -shall be trodden under foot, torn to pieces, and their fragments so -scattered that they cannot be reunited at the final hour. - -Listen, brothers: should a Magdalen crawl at your feet, cursing her past -errors, promising you a new youth of love, do not believe her. Heaven is -not lavish of prodigies. Providence rarely shackles human misfortunes. -Say to yourselves that evil is powerful, and that in this world of ours -falsehood is not changed into truth even to give relief to a poor, -suffering soul. Repulse the Magdalen, spurn her, laugh at her tears and -the pleading of her heart; rail against all redemption. Such is the -advice of what men call wisdom. - -I feel that I am gaining experience in worldly matters. - -Laurence is a soul forever lost, a stupefied intelligence, a creature so -hardened that nothing can awaken her from her sleep in the mud. I might -bruise her flesh, I might break her bones with a club, or I might lift -her drowsy eyelids with kisses, but she would still squat at my feet, -without a quiver, without a cry either of pain or joy. Sometimes, I am -tempted to cry out to her: - -"Get up and let us fight; awake, shout, swear, and show me that you are -yet alive by making me suffer!" - -She looks at me with her dull eyes; I recoil affrighted, not daring to -speak. Laurence is dead, dead in heart and in thought. I can do nothing -with such a corpse. - -Brothers, I have no longer the slightest hope; I no longer wish to -trouble myself about this girl. She has refused my life of toil and I -cannot accept her life of dissipation. The dream was too lofty; the -reality seems to me like a bottomless pit. I have paused and am waiting. -For what? I do not know! - -I have only to justify myself in your eyes. I know that you see clearly -into my soul, that you explain my acts to yourselves by thoughts of -justice and duty. You have more confidence in me than I myself dare to -have. At times I question myself, I judge myself as I am, no doubt, -judged by the passers whom I elbow in this life; I am afraid of the vice -which surrounds without corrupting me, of the woman who remains in my -presence without being my companion. Then, in utter despair, I am -tempted to do what others would do, to take Laurence by the shoulders -and push her back into the street from whence she came. Should I do -this, she would resume her old career as madly, as recklessly, as ever, -bearing upon her forehead the stamp of the same wretchedness and infamy -as before. And I would calmly close my door, having stolen nothing from -her, owing her nothing. Men's consciences are very elastic; there are -people who possess the science of remaining honest by becoming cowardly -and cruel. - -Laurence has thrust herself upon my protection with all the strength of -her abandonment. She remains with me, tranquil and passive. I cannot, -however, drive her away. My poverty prevents me from paying her to go. -We are fatally bound one to the other by misfortune. As long as she -shall feel inclined to stay, I shall believe it my duty to accept her -presence. - -Hence I am waiting, and, I repeat, I know not for what I am waiting. -Like Laurence, I am weighed down, I live in a sort of somnolence at once -mild and sad, without suffering too greatly, feeling in my heart only a -colossal fatigue. After all, I am not irritated against this girl; I -feel more pity than anger, more sadness than hatred. - -I no longer struggle, I abandon myself; I find in the certainty of evil -a strange repose, a pacification of my entire being. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV - -JACQUES AND MARIE - - -You remember tall Jacques, that long, pale and quiet lad, do you not? I -see him yet, walking in the shade of the plane trees on the college -green; he walked with a slow and firm step, kicking away the pebbles -with his foot; he laughed tranquilly, was logical in his smiles and -lived in supreme indifference. I remember that, on a day of effusion, he -confided to me the secret of his strength. I understood nothing of his -disclosures, except that he designed to live happily by ripening his -heart and mind. - -When fifteen, I dreamed only of tall Jacques. I envied his long blond -hair, his superb indolence. He was, among us, a type of elegance and -aristocratic disdain. I was surprised by his selfish nature, which had -nothing either young or generous about it; I admired the dull and cold -lad who went among us with the indulgent and superior gravity of a man. - -I have seen tall Jacques again. He is my neighbor; he lives in the same -house as I, two floors lower down. Yesterday, as I was mounting the -stairway, I met a young man and a young woman who were descending. The -young man, without hesitation and in the most natural manner in the -world, extended me his hand. - -"How are you, Claude?" he said to me. - -He acted as if he had quitted me only the previous day. He had scarcely -looked at my face, but I looked at his in the partial obscurity of the -landing, without being able to recognize his features. His hand was -cold. I know not by what strange sensation I recognized his calm and -indifferent flesh. - -"Is it you, Jacques?" I cried. "Good heavens! you are taller than ever!" - -"Yes, yes, it is I," answered he, with a smile. "I lodge there, at the -end of the passage, number 17. Come and see me this evening, between -seven and eight o'clock." - -And he went down-stairs, without turning his head, preceded by the young -woman who stared at me with the wide open eyes of a child. I stood still -for an instant, leaning over the railing, and looked after this youth -who was departing with a calm step, while my heart was leaping violently -in my breast. - -In the evening, I went down to number 17. The chamber was fitted up with -the false and discouraging luxury of the furnished lodging-houses of -Paris. You cannot imagine, brothers, the wretched and shameful air of -the frayed red hangings, gray with dust, of the dirty and greasy -furniture, of the cracked faïences, of the nameless objects, rags and -wrecks which were spread out along the damp walls. My mansarde is barer, -but not so hideous. Two large and lofty windows, garnished with thin -muslin curtains, threw a raw light over all this rubbish. One saw a -wardrobe with glass doors, which was tarnished and had one side -broken; a bed enveloped by faded curtains; a miserable sofa -and deplorable arm-chairs, yellow from use; besides, the room -contained a toilet-bureau, a desk, a table, chairs, odd pieces of -furniture--furniture which had served in dining-rooms, bed-chambers, -parlors and offices. The general effect had I know not what of -pretentiousness and filth which disgusted me. At the first glance, one -might think he had entered the chamber of the right sort of people; at -the second, one saw the dirt on the mahogany and on the damask, and one -felt that he was amid vice and slovenliness. - -I was saddened by the unhealthful aspect of this chamber; I breathed -with disgust the thick and nauseous air, smelling of dust, old varnish -and faded stuffs, a biting and stifling odor which is common to all -furnished lodging-houses. - -Jacques, seated at the desk, was toiling away peacefully, a Code open -before him. The young woman I had met on the stairway was lying upon the -sofa, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, silent and grave. - -Jacques half turned his chair; his face appeared to me in the full -light. It was still the same visage of other days, a superb and -indifferent visage; one read in it a strong will, made up of selfishness -and coldness. The man had become what the boy promised to be. Our former -comrade must be what the world calls a practical and serious person; he -has an aim: he wishes to be a counselor, a lawyer or a notary, and moves -onward towards his goal with all the power of his tranquillity. With -closed heart and calm flesh, he accepts this world without either thanks -or revolt. Jacques has an honest nature, a just mind; he will live -honorably, according to duty and custom; he will not weaken, because he -will not have to weaken; he will pass on, straight and firm, having -nothing either to hate or to love. In his clear and empty eyes, I do not -find the soul; upon his pale lips I do not see the blood of the heart. - -In the presence of this quiet and smiling young man, bending over his -law books and extending to me his cool hand, I thought of myself, -brothers, of my poor being incessantly shaken by the fever of wishes and -regrets. I advance staggeringly; I have not to protect me Jacques' -imperturbable tranquillity, his silence of heart and of soul. I am all -flesh, all love; I feel myself profoundly vibrate at the least -sensation. Events lead me; I can neither conduct nor surmount them. -To-morrow, in my free life, if I should happen to wound the world, the -world will turn from me, because I obeyed my pride and my tenderness. -Jacques will be saluted, having followed the common route. I dare not -say aloud that virtue is a question of temperament; but, brothers, I -think all the same that the Jacqueses upon this earth are basely -virtuous, while the Claudes have the frightful misfortune of having in -them an eternal tempest, an immense desire for the good, which agitates -them and leads them beyond the judgment of the crowd. - -The young woman had taken her glance from the ceiling and was looking at -me, with partially open lips and curious eyes. Her face had the -transparent whiteness of wax, with dull flushes on the cheeks; her pale -lips, her soft and brown eyelids gave to her visage the air of a sick -and resigned child. She was fifteen, and, at times, when she smiled, one -would have thought her scarcely twelve. - -While Jacques was talking to me in his slow voice, I could not take my -eyes from the young girl's touching countenance, so youthful and so -faded. There were upon her frank forehead profound lassitude and -languor; the blood no longer flowed beneath her skin; the shivers of -life no longer made her slumbering flesh tremble. Have you ever seen, in -her cradle, a little girl whom fever has rendered whiter and more -innocent than usual? She sleeps with her eyes wide open; she has the -gentle and peaceful visage of an angel; she suffers and she seems to -smile. The strange little girl whom I had before me, that woman who had -remained a child, resembled her sister in the cradle. Only, in her case, -it was more pitiful to see upon a forehead of fifteen so much purity and -so much pallor, all the innocent graces of a young girl and all the -shameful fatigues of a woman. - -She had thrown back her arms and was supporting her languishing head -upon her hands. I was ignorant of her history; I knew not who she was or -what she was doing in this chamber. But, from her entire being, I saw -the innocence of her heart and the disgrace of her life; I recognized -the youthfulness of her glances and the premature age of her blood; I -said to myself that she was dying of decrepitude at fifteen, with a -spotless soul. Emaciated and weakened, she would expire like a fallen -creature, but with the smile of an angel upon her lips. - -I sat for two full hours between Jacques and Marie, contemplating these -two beings, studying their countenances. I could not conjecture what had -brought such a man and such a woman together. Then, I thought of -Laurence, and comprehended that unions existed which could not be -avoided. - -Jacques seems to me satisfied with the existence he leads. He toils, he -regulates his pleasures and his studies; he lives the life of a student -without impatience, even with a certain tranquil satisfaction. I noticed -that he showed some pride in receiving me in such a beautiful chamber; -he does not see all the ignoble ugliness of the false and wretched -luxury which surrounds him. Besides, he is neither vain nor a coxcomb; -he is a great deal too practical to have such defects. He spoke to me -only of his hopes, of his future position; he is in haste to be no -longer young and to live as becomes a grave man. Meanwhile, in order to -be like the rest of mankind, he consents to inhabit a chamber at fifty -francs per month rent, he wishes to smoke, to drink a little, and even -to have a sweetheart. But he considers all this simply as a custom which -he cannot refuse; he designs, after having passed his final examination, -to disembarrass himself of his cigar, of Marie and of his glass as -pieces of furniture thenceforward useless. He has calculated, nearly to -the minute, the time when he will have a right to the respect of worthy -people. - -Marie listened to Jacques' theories with perfect calmness. She did not -appear to comprehend that she was one of those pieces of furniture which -a young man would abandon on removing from one circle of society to -another. The poor girl, doubtless, cares very little who protects her, -provided that she has a sofa upon which she can rest her painful limbs. - -Besides, Jacques and Marie talked together with a gentleness which -surprised me. They seemed to accept each other, to take care of each -other. There is not love, not even friendship in their discourse; it is -a polite language which shuns every quarrel and keeps the heart in a -state of complete indifference. Jacques must have been the inventor of -this language. - -After an hour had elapsed, Jacques declared that he could not afford to -lose any more time; he resumed his work, begging me to remain, assuring -me that my presence would not annoy him in any way whatever. I drew my -chair up to the sofa, and chatted in a low voice with Marie. This woman -attracted me; I felt for her all the tenderness and pity of a father. - -She talked like a child, now in monosyllables, now with volubility, -enthusiastically and without pausing. I had formed a correct opinion of -her: her intelligence and heart have remained those of an infant, while, -physically, she has grown up and strayed from the path which leads to -true happiness. She is exquisitely innocent; horribly so sometimes, -when, with a sweet smile upon her lips and large, astonished eyes, she -allows rude words to escape from her delicate mouth. She does not blush, -being totally ignorant of blushes; she does not seem to realize her -condition, and is slowly dying, without knowing either what she is or -what are the other young girls who turn away their heads when she passes -them on the streets. - -Little by little, she told me the story of her life. I was able, phrase -by phrase, to reconstruct this lamentable story. A connected narrative -would not have satisfied me, for I should have hesitated to believe. I -preferred that she should make a confession, without knowing she was -doing so, by partial avowals, in the course of conversation. - -Marie thinks she is fifteen years old. She does not know where she was -born, but vaguely remembers a woman who beat her, her mother without -doubt. Her earliest recollections date from the streets; she recalls -that she played there and that she slept there. In fact, her life has -been a long walk in the thoroughfares. It would be very difficult for -her to tell what she did up to the age of eight; when I questioned her -in regard to her early years, she replied that she had forgotten all -about them, except that she was very hungry and very cold. In her eighth -year, like all the little outcasts, she sold flowers. She slept then at -the Fontainebleau gate, in a large, gloomy garret which was the refuge -of a whole herd of children of the same age as herself, all of whom had -been abandoned by their parents to the cold charity of the world. Until -she was fourteen, she went to this kennel, choosing her corner every -night, sometimes well received by her companions, sometimes beaten by -them, growing up amid wretchedness and want, nobody stretching out a -hand to save her or uttering a word to awaken her heart. She was in the -deepest ignorance, and did not even know that she possessed a mind and a -soul. She acquired evil ways, without suspecting that evil existed; at -present, though she had become a woman of the world, she still had her -childish face and her mind was yet infantile and innocent. She had -strayed too early in life for sin to touch her soul. - -I now understood the meaning of her strange visage, made up of -shamelessness and innocence, of beauty at once youthful and faded. I had -the key to the mystery of this cynical girl, this weary woman, who was -dying with the calmness and the whiteness of a martyr. She was the -daughter of the great city, and the great city had made of her a -monstrous creature neither a child nor a woman. In that being, whose -soul no one had awakened, that soul still slumbered. The body itself -had, doubtless, never been aroused. Marie was a creature simple in mind -and flesh, who, while she had trodden muddy paths, had remained pure -amid the mud, knowing nothing and accepting everything. I saw her before -me, already branded, with her sweet smile, talking to me of herself, in -her somewhat hoarse voice, as our little sisters talk to us of their -dolls, and I felt a sickening sensation take possession of my heart. - -When Marie reached fourteen, an old woman, who had no right whatever to -her, sold her. She allowed herself to be bought; she almost offered -herself for sale, as she had offered her bouquets of violets. She still -had rosy cheeks, and her laughter rang out gayly. She now had silk -dresses and jewels; she accepted the silk and the gold as she would have -accepted playthings, tearing, wasting everything. But Marie lived thus, -because she did not know that one could live in any other way; she could -not appreciate the value of luxury, and would have accepted with -indifference either a hovel or a hôtel. It pleased her to live in -idleness, to look at the walls; suffering, which had already bent her, -made her love repose, a sort of vague reverie, on coming out of which -she seemed uneasy and agitated. When one interrogated her, asking her -what she had seen, she responded in a bewildered tone: "I do not know!" - -She lived thus for nearly a year, running about among the furnished -lodging houses, sometimes living in one, sometimes in another, without -losing anything of her serenity. As I showed some surprise and could not -vanquish all the disgust with which such an existence filled me, she was -greatly amazed and did not in the least understand my feelings. - -One evening, poverty returned to her, and Marie was on her way back to -the garret at the Fontainebleau gate, when she met Jacques. She told me -of this meeting in a voice which I shall never forget, with a stony look -in her eyes and noisy laughter upon her lips. It was she who spoke to -Jacques, asking him for his arm because it was dark and the pavement was -slippery. She had no other thought than to obtain his aid for the -moment. Jacques questioned her, drew her story from her and took pity on -her. He offered her a shelter more suitable for her than that to which -she was going, and took her to the house in which he lived. She made no -objection, maintaining her usual calmness. She would not, perhaps, have -asked any one for a bed, for she had thought only of the straw in the -garret at the Fontainebleau gate, but she accepted the feathers and -white sheets, which had fallen from the sky, without either joy or -repugnance. From that time, she had lived as much as possible on the -sofa. - -I can easily imagine that Jacques thought he had made a good -acquisition, in offering his protection to Marie. She was in every way -suited to become his companion. She was of a weak and calm nature, and -would not trouble him in his indifference; she was a careless girl of -whom he could easily disembarrass himself, a woman charming in her -pallor, who had all the grace of youth without having either its -caprices or its inconsistency. Besides, Marie, though sometimes -suffering, has her days of life and gayety; she is not yet nailed to a -mattress, and, when she laughs in the sunshine, among her flaxen curls, -she glows with enough beauty to make Jacques himself dream. - -It pleases me, brothers, to talk to you of Jacques and Marie. - -I remained two or three hours with them, forgetting my sufferings, and I -wished to forget them still longer in describing to you my visit. It -will give you a glimpse of a world of which you are ignorant. That world -is touching; the study of it is biting, full of vertigo. I would -penetrate into its hearts and souls; I am attracted by these women and -men who live around me. Perhaps, when I analyze them, I shall be -discouraged at the result, but I love to analyze, nevertheless. These -people live a life so strange, that I believe myself always to be upon -the point of discovering in them new truths. - - - - -CHAPTER XV - -BITING POVERTY - - -We eat from day to day, selling old books or a few old clothes to get -money. My poverty is such that I no longer have any comprehension of it, -and that I go to sleep at night almost satisfied when I have twenty sous -remaining with which to purchase the two meals of the morrow. - -I have been to many offices to solicit employment. I have always been -received with roughness; I comprehend that I was guilty of the sin of -being poorly clad. I wrote a bad hand, they said; I was good for -nothing. I believed their words and retired, ashamed of having had, for -an instant, the thought of robbing these honest people by putting my -intelligence and will at their service. - -I am good for nothing--such is the truth that I have learned by my -attempts. I am good for nothing, except to suffer, to sob, to weep over -my youth and my heart. Hence, behold me alone in the world, repulsed and -miserable, not daring to beg, and feeling myself more famished than the -poor wretch who holds out his hand for alms. I came to Paris, plunged in -a dream of glory and fortune; I have awakened in the midst of mud and -distress. - -Happily, Heaven is kind and good. There is in want a sort of heavy -intoxication, a pleasurable somnolence, which puts to sleep the -conscience, the flesh and the mind. I do not clearly feel my degree of -indigence and infamy; I suffer little from my destitution; I doze in my -hunger and grovel in my idleness. - -This is my life: - -In the morning, I rise late. The mornings are foggy, cold and wan; the -light enters, gray and sad, through the curtainless window; it lies -about in a melancholy way upon the floor and walls. I experience a -sensation of comfort in feeling the agreeable warmth of the garments I -heap upon the bed. Laurence sleeps a sleep of lead, her face thrown back -and expressionless. As for me, with open eyes, the covers drawn to my -chin, I stare at the dingy ceiling which is crossed by a long chink. I -fall into an ecstasy before this chink; I study it, I follow delightedly -with my glance its broken lines; I contemplate it for hours at a time, -without thinking of anything. - -This is the best period of the day. I am warm and half asleep. My flesh -is satisfied, my mind strays gently through that beautiful land of -partial slumber in which life has all the pleasures of death. Then, -sometimes, when I am completely awakened, I abandon myself to the sway -of some dream. Brothers, what a child my poor heart must be that I can -still lie to it! Ah! yes, I dream constantly, I yet have that strange -power of escaping from reality, of creating from its wrecks a better -world and better beings. There, between two dirty sheets, in the -immediate vicinity of a woman hideous and wretched in her degradation, -in the midst of a gloomy chamber, I often see a palace, all marble and -silver, and a spotless, beautiful sweetheart, who stretches out her arms -to me and summons me to quit my miserable retreat and its shameful -surroundings. - -Eleven o'clock strikes and I leap from bed. The damp cold of the floor, -which suddenly chills the soles of my feet, draws me from my dream. I -shiver and dress myself. Then I walk about the room, going from the -window to the door, glancing at the wall which bounds my horizon, and -returning to stare at Laurence without seeing her. I smoke, yawn and try -to read. I am cold and weary. - -Laurence awakes. Then begins the chapter of suffering. We must eat. We -talk the matter over. We search the chamber for some object to sell. -Often we give up the idea of breakfasting, when the problem is too -difficult to solve and all is said. When we have happened to find some -old rag, some piece of paper, no matter what, Laurence dresses herself -and goes to offer the deplorable merchandise to a second-hand dealer, -who gives her eight or ten sous. She brings back bread and a little pork -which we eat as we stand, without talking to each other. - -The days are long for the wretched. When it is too cold and we have no -fire, I go to bed again. When the weather is milder I strive to toil, -giving myself a fever in trying to carry on work which does not desire -me any longer. - -Laurence throws herself into a chair or walks about with slow steps. She -drags along her blue silk dress, which seems to weep as it rustles past -the furniture. This rag is all yellow with grease, all torn, ripped at -the seams and worn at the folds. Laurence lets it get soiled and -tattered, without either cleaning or mending it. She puts it on in the -morning, having nothing else to wear, and walks in it the whole day -about this miserable chamber, with dishevelled locks, the low-necked -ball dress displaying her back and throat. And this dress, this soft -silk of a pale blue color, which still shines in spots, is an infamous, -twisted, faded and lamentable rag. I experience I know not what keen -anguish on seeing these shreds of rich tissue, this luxury dragged about -in the midst of want, this woman's bare shoulders reddened by the cold. -I shall always remember Laurence walking about, thus clad, in the den -sacred to my twentieth year. - -In the evening, the question of bread returns, terrible and pressing. We -eat or we do not eat. Then, we retire, weary and sleepy. On the morrow, -the same life begins again, but sharper and more biting every day. - -I have not been out of doors for a week past. One evening--we had not -eaten the previous day--I took off my coat on the Place du Panthéon, -and Laurence went to sell it. It was freezing. I went home on a run, -sweating great beads from fear and suffering. Two days afterwards my -pantaloons followed the coat. I no longer have clothes to wear. I wrap -myself up in a coverlet, I cover myself as I can and take thus the most -exercise possible to prevent my joints from stiffening. When any one -comes to see me, I hurry to bed and pretend to be a trifle indisposed. - -Laurence appears to suffer less than I do. She feels no shock, she does -not try to escape from the existence we lead. I cannot comprehend this -woman. She tranquilly accepts my poverty. Is it devotion or necessity? - -As for me, brothers, as I have told you, I am comfortable, I am plunged -in lethargy. I feel my being melting away; I abandon myself to that -gentle prostration of dying men, who ask for pity in a weak and -caressing tone. I have no desire whatever, except to eat more -frequently. I would also be pitied, caressed and loved. I have need of a -heart. - -* * * * * - -Oh! brothers, I suffer, I suffer. I dare not speak; I feel shame close -my lips, and I can only weep, without taking from my breast the crushing -weight which is upon it. - -Poverty is mild and infamy light. And now Heaven is punishing me, bowing -me beneath a terrible hurricane, beneath an implacable wound. - -At last, brothers, you can give up all hope of me: I have no more steps -to descend, for I am at the bottom of the ladder; I am about to abandon -myself to the gulf--I am lost forever. - -Do not question me. I allow my cries to float to your ears, for grief is -too bitter for me to succeed in stifling its groans. But I restrain the -words upon my lips; I wish neither to frighten you nor to sadden you -with the recital of the terrible history of my heart. - -Say to yourselves that Claude is dead, that you will never see him more, -that all is, indeed, over. I prefer to suffer alone, even if I should -die of my suffering, to troubling your holy tranquillity by tearing -myself open before you, by showing you my bleeding wound. - -No, you will suffer from the revelation, but it is impossible for me to -maintain silence. I will find some consolation in imparting to you all -my thoughts and actions; I will be quieted when I know that you are -sobbing with me. - -Brothers, I love Laurence! - - - - -CHAPTER XVI - -REMINISCENCES - - -Let me regret, let me remember, let me review all my youth in a single -glance. - -We were then twelve years old. I met you one October evening upon the -college green, beneath the plane trees, near the little fountain. You -were weak and timid. I know not what united us; our weakness, perhaps. -From that evening, we walked together, separating from each other for a -few hours, but clasping hands with stronger friendship after each -separation. - -I know that we have neither the same flesh nor the same heart. You live -and think differently from me, but you love as I do. There is the secret -of our fraternity. You have my tenderness and my pity; you kneel in -life, you seek some one upon whom to bestow your souls. We have a -communion of tenderness and affection. - -Do you remember the first years of our acquaintance? We read together -idle tales, grand romances of adventure which held us for six months -beneath their fascinating spell. We wrote verses and made chemical -experiments; we indulged in painting and music. There was, at the house -of one of us, on the fourth floor, a large chamber which served as our -laboratory and atelier. There, in the solitude, we committed our -childish crimes: we ate the raisins hanging from the ceiling, we risked -our eyes over retorts brought to a white heat, we wrote rhymed comedies -in three acts which I yet read to-day when I wish to smile. I still see -that large chamber, with its broad window, flooded with white light and -full of old newspapers, engravings trodden under foot, chairs with their -straw bottoms gone, and broken wood horses. It seems to me pleasant and -smiling, when I look at my chamber of to-day and perceive, standing in -the middle of it, Laurence who terrifies and attracts me. - -Later, the open air intoxicated us. We enjoyed the healthful dissipation -of the fields and long walks. It was madness, fury. We broke the -retorts, forgot the raisins and closed the door of the laboratory. In -the morning, we set out before day. I came beneath your windows to -summon you in the midst of darkness, and we hastened to quit the town, -our game bags on our backs, our guns upon our shoulders. I know not what -kind of game we chased; we went along, idling in the dew, running amid -the tall grass which bent down beneath our feet with sharp and quick -sounds; we wallowed in the country like young colts escaped from the -stable. Our game bags were empty on our return, but our minds were full -and our hearts also. - -What a delicious district is Provence, biting and mild for those who are -penetrated by its ardor and tenderness! I remember those white, damp and -almost cool dawns, which filled my being and the sky above with the -peace of supreme innocence; I remember the overwhelming sun of noon, the -hot, heavy and fragrant atmosphere which weighed down upon the earth, -those broad rays which poured from the heights like gold in -fusion--virile and powerful hour, giving to the blood a precocious -maturity and to the earth a marvellous fertility. We walked like brave -children amid those dawns and scorching noons, young and frisky in the -morning, but grave and more thoughtful in the evening; we talked in -brotherly fashion, sharing our bread together and experiencing the same -emotions. - -The lands were yellow or red, desert and desolate, sown with slender -trees; here and there were groves of foliage, of a dark green, staining -the broad gray stretch of the plain; then, in the distance, all around -the horizon, were low hills ranged in an immense circle, full of jagged -spots, of a light blue or a pale violet, standing out with a delicate -sharpness against the dark, deep blue of the sky. I can still see those -penetrating landscapes of my youth. I well know that I belong to them, -that what little of love and truth is in me comes to me from their -tranquil delights. - -At other times, towards evening, when the sun was sinking, we took the -broad white highway which leads to the river. Poor river, meagre as a -brook, here narrow, troubled and deep, there broad and flowing in a -sheet of silver over a bed of stones. We chose one of the hollows, on -the edge of a lofty bank which the waters had eaten away, and in it we -bathed beneath the overhanging branches of the trees. The last rays of -the sun glided between the leaves, sowing the sombre shade with luminous -specks, and rested upon the bosom of the river in broad plates of gold. -We perceived only water and verdure, little corners of the sky, the -summit of a distant mountain, the vineyards in a neighboring field. And -we lived thus in the silence and the coolness. Seated upon the bank, in -the short grass, with legs hanging and bare feet splashing in the water, -we enjoyed our youth and our friendship. What delicious dreams we -indulged in upon those shores, the gravel of which was being gradually -borne away every day by the waves! Our dreams vanish thus, borne away by -the resistless current of life! - -To-day these remembrances are harsh and implacable towards me. At -certain hours, in my idleness, a remembrance of that age will suddenly -come to me, sharp and dolorous, with the violence of a blow from a club. -I feel a burning sensation running across my breast. It is my youth -which is awakening in me, desolate and dying. I take my head in my -hands, restraining my sobs; I plunge with a bitter delight into the -history of those vanished days and take pleasure in enlarging the wound, -the while repeating to myself that all this is no more and will never be -again. Then, the recollection vanishes; the lightning has passed over -me; I am overwhelmed with grief, recalling nothing. - -Later still, at the age when the man awakens in the child, our life -changed. I prefer the first hours to those hours of passion and budding -virility; the recollections of our hunting excursions, of our vagabond -existence, are more agreeable to me than the far off vision of young -girls, whose visages remain imprinted on my heart. I see them, pale and -indistinct, in their coldness, their virgin indifference; they passed -by, knowing me not, and, to-day, when I dream of them again, I say to -myself that they cannot dream of me. I know not how it is, but this -thought makes them strangers to me; there is no exchange of -recollections, and I regard them in the light of thoughts alone, in the -light of visions which I have cherished and which have vanished. - -Let me also recall the society which surrounded us: those professors, -excellent men, who would have been better had they possessed more youth -and more love; those comrades of ours, the wicked and the good, who were -without pity and without soul like all children. I must be a strange -creature, fit only to love and weep, for I was softened and suffered -from the time I first walked. My college years were years of weeping. I -had in me the pride of loving natures. I was not loved, for I was not -understood and I refused to make myself known. To-day, I no longer have -any hatred; I see clearly that I was born to tear myself with my own -hands. I have pardoned my former comrades who ruffled me, wounded me in -my pride and in my tenderness; they were the first to teach me the rude -lessons of the world, and I almost thank them for their harshness. Among -them were sorry, foolish and envious lads, who must now be perfect -imbeciles and wicked men. I have forgotten even their names. - -Oh! let me, let me recollect. My past life, at this hour of anguish, -comes to me with a singular sensation of pity and regret, of pain and -joy. I feel myself deeply agitated, when I compare all that is with all -that is no more. All that is no more are Provence, the broad, open -country flooded with sunlight, you, my tears and my laughter of other -days; all that is no more are my hopes and dreams, my innocence and -pride. Alas! all that is are Paris with its mud, my garret with its -poverty; all that is are Laurence, infamy, my tenderness and love for -that miserable and degraded woman. - -Listen: it was, I believe, in the month of June. We were together on the -brink of the river, in the grass, our faces turned towards the sky. I -was talking to you. I have this instant recollected my words, and the -remembrance of them burns me like a red hot iron. I had confided to you -that my heart had need of purity and innocence, that I loved the snow -because it was white, that I preferred the water of the springs to wine -because it was limpid. I pointed to the sky; I told you that it was blue -and immense like the clear, deep ocean, and that I loved the ocean and -the sky. Then, I spoke to you of woman; I said I would have preferred -that she were born, like the wild flowers, in the open air, amid the -dew, that she were a water plant, that an eternal current washed her -heart and her flesh. I swore to you that I would love only a pure girl, -a spotless innocent, whiter than the snow, more limpid than the water of -the spring, deeper and more immense in purity than the sky and the -ocean. For a long while, I held forth enthusiastically to you thus, -quivering with a holy wish, anxious for the companionship of innocence -and immaculate whiteness, unable to pause in my dream which was soaring -towards the light. - -At last, I possess a companion, a spotless innocent! She is beside me -and I love her. Oh! if you could see her! She has a sombre and unfeeling -visage like a clouded sky; the waters were low and she has bathed in the -mud. My spotless innocent is soiled to such an extent that formerly I -would not have dared to touch her with my finger, for fear of dying -therefrom. Yet I love her. - -I am laughing; I feel a strange delight in jeering at myself. I dreamed -of luxury, and I have no longer even a morsel of cloth with which to -clothe myself; I dreamed of purity, and I love Laurence! - -Amid my poverty, when my heart bled and I realized that I loved, my -throat was choked, terror seized upon me. Then it was that my -remembrances rose up. I have not been able to drive them away; they have -remained with me, implacable, in a crowd, tumultuous, all entering -simultaneously into my breast and burning it. I did not summon them; -they came and I yielded to them. Every time I weep, my youth returns to -console me, but its consolations redouble my tears, for I dream of that -youth which is dead forever. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII - -CLAUDE'S LOVE - - -I cannot stop, I cannot lie to myself. I had resolved to hide my -misfortune from myself, to seem ignorant of my wound, hoping to forget. -One sometimes kills death in its germ when one believes in life. - -I suffer and weep. Without doubt, by searching within myself I will find -a lamentable certainty, but I prefer to know everything to living thus, -affecting a carelessness which costs me such great effort. - -I wish to ascertain to what point of despair I have descended; I wish to -open my heart and there read the truth; I wish to penetrate to the -utmost depths of my being, to interrogate it and to demand from it an -account of itself. At least, I ought to discover how it happens that I -have fallen so low; I have the right to probe my wound, at the risk of -torturing myself and ascertaining that I must die of it. - -If, in this disagreeable task, I should make my wound greater than it -is, if my love should increase by affirming itself, I will accept this -augmented pain with joy, for the brutal truth is necessary to those who -walk unshackled in life, obeying only their instincts. - -I love Laurence, and I exact from my heart the explanation of this love. -I did not fall in love with her at first sight, as men fall in love with -women in romances. I have felt myself attracted little by little, -melted, so to speak, gnawed and covered gradually by the horrible -affliction. Now, I am altogether under its influence; there is not a -single fibre of my flesh which does not belong to Laurence. - -A month ago I was free; I kept Laurence beside me as one keeps an object -which one cannot cast into the street. At present, she has bound me to -her; I watch over her, I gaze at her when she is wrapped in slumber; I -do not wish her to leave me. - -All this was decreed by fate, and I think I can comprehend how love for -this woman entered into me, took slow possession of my entire being. -Amid suffering and abandonment, one cannot live with impunity beside a -woman who suffers as one does, who is abandoned as one is. Tears have -their sympathy, hunger is fraternal; those who are dying together, with -empty stomachs, warmly grasp each other's hands. - -I have remained five weeks in this sad and cold chamber, always in -Laurence's company. I saw only her in the whole world; she was for me -the universe, life, affection. From morning till night, I had before my -eyes the face of this woman upon which I imagined I sometimes surprised -a rapid flash of friendship. As for me, I was wretched and weak; I lived -wrapped in my coverlet, an exile from society, not even possessing the -power to go to seek my portion of the sunlight. I no longer had the -smallest hope of anything; I had limited my existence to these four dark -walls, to that corner of the sky which I saw between the chimney tops; I -had fastened myself up in my dungeon, I had there imprisoned my -thoughts, my wishes. I know not if you can thoroughly understand this: -if you are some day without a shirt, you will realize that man can -create a world, vast and full of living beings, from the bed upon which -he is stretched. - -I was in that condition when I met a woman as I went from the window to -the door, enveloped in my coverlet. Laurence, seated in her chair, saw -me walking about for hours together. Each time I trudged back and forth, -I passed before her and found her eyes tranquilly following me. I felt -her glance fasten itself upon me, and I was solaced in my weariness. I -cannot tell what intense and strange consolation I derived from knowing -myself regarded by a living creature, by a woman. It is from the period -of these glances that my love must date. I perceived for the first time -that I was not alone; I felt a profound satisfaction in discovering a -human creature near me. - -This creature was, without doubt, at first only a friend. I finally sat -down beside her, talked, and wept without concealing my tears. Laurence, -whom my sad situation and extreme poverty must have filled with pity, -answered me, wiped away my tears. She also was weary of thus dying by -inches; the silence and cold had at last begun to be tiresome to her. -Her words seemed to me more refined, her gestures more caressing than -usual; she had almost become a woman again. - -At this point, brothers, I was suddenly invaded by love. My sphere of -life was growing narrower each day. The earth was fleeing from me; -Paris, France, yourselves, my thoughts and my acquaintances, all were no -more. Laurence represented in my eyes God and mankind, humanity and the -Divinity; the chamber in which she was had acquired a horizon out of all -proportion. I felt myself beyond the world, almost in the embrace of -death; I no longer thought that I might one day descend into the street, -the noise of which mounted to my ears, and I had so little comprehension -that I was alive that the thought had come to me to live without eating. -It seemed to me that Laurence and I were in another part of the -celestial system, lost, separated from the living, transported to some -unknown corner beyond time and space. We could not have been more alone -in the midst of the infinite. - -One evening, as twilight came on, filling the chamber with a transparent -gloom, I was walking slowly about, still going from the door to the -window. In the growing obscurity, I saw Laurence's pale face, standing -out from amid her dishevelled black hair; her sombre eyes had a vague -brightness, and she looked at me thus, steadily, beautiful in her -sufferings. I stopped in my weary walk and contemplated her. I knew not -what had taken place within me; my flesh was shaken, my heart was open -and I trembled like a leaf in every limb. All of a quiver, I ran to -Laurence and clasped her in my arms. I loved her. - -I loved Laurence with all the strength of my abandonment and poverty. I -was suffering from hunger and cold, I was clad in a rag of wool, I felt -myself forsaken by everybody, and yet I had a sweetheart to fold to my -bosom, to love with the love of desperation! In the depths of infamy, I -had found the sweetheart who was waiting for me. Now, in the gulf, far -removed from the light, we were alone to embrace, to clasp each other, -like children who are afraid and who reassure themselves by hiding their -heads on each other's shoulders. What silence was around us, and what -gloom! How sweet it is to love in solitude, amid those deserts of -despair whither all sounds of life have ceased to penetrate! I plunged -to the depths of this supreme felicity; I loved Laurence with the -caressing delight with which the dying man must love the existence which -is escaping from him. - -I passed a week in a sort of dolorous ecstasy. I was tempted to stop up -the window, that we might live in the midst of darkness for the balance -of our lives; I wished to shut out the entire world and all it -contained; I wished that the garret were very much smaller, so small, in -fact, that no intruder could ever get into it to remind us that we were -mortal like the rest of mankind and womankind. I did not think myself -sufficiently miserable; I wanted more wretchedness, an excess of -affliction of the most biting and terrible description; I desired the -advent of some frightful misfortune that should strip me of all that -want had left, that should tear from me every remaining comfort and -leave Laurence and myself to live without having to thank this earth for -anything whatever! I sighed for perfect independence and complete -isolation. Then, my days would sweep by, each in its turn plunging me -deeper into my love and my poverty. I was enraptured with cold and -hunger, with the dirty mansarde, with the stains upon the walls and the -furniture. I was enraptured with the blue silk dress, that lamentable -assemblage of soiled tatters. My heart almost burst with pity when I saw -Laurence standing before me, with this rag upon her back; I asked myself -with the utmost anxiety by what kiss, by what superhuman kindness, I -could clearly and unmistakably prove to her that I adored her in her -poverty. As for me, I was happy in possessing only my coverlet: I would -be colder, I would suffer more. I recall those first days like some -strange, bewildering dream; I see the mansarde more in disorder, -gloomier than ever, I breathe the thick and suffocating atmosphere which -the window did not renew; I see Laurence and myself, like shadowy -ghosts, walking about the miserable garret in our repulsive rags, -chatting lovingly together, living in ourselves. - -Yes, I love her, I love her desperately. I interrogate myself, and my -palpitating heart narrates to me the horrible story, telling me how it -came about. I have enlarged my wound; now that I have searched within -myself, now that I know the reason and the depth of my love, I feel that -I have more fever, that I have become mad and reckless. - -A short time ago, I was shocked at the very thought of loving Laurence. -My pride is dead, for I am shocked no longer. I have descended to -Laurence's level; I understand her perfectly now, and do not wish her to -be other than she is. I take a savage joy in saying to myself that I am -now at the very bottom of the social scale, that I am satisfied there, -and that there I will remain. I appreciate Laurence the more because of -the gay and careless life she led in the past. There is, I know, -despair, a sort of bitter irony, in my love; I have the intoxication of -evil, the delirium of abandonment and hunger; I give myself up to the -existence which has suddenly welcomed me, in order to insult the light -on which my soul dotes and to which I cannot ascend. - -Did I not at one time speak of redemption? I wished to reform Laurence, -to lead her into better ways, to make her good and useful. What an -insane idea! It was much easier for me to become unworthy. To-day, we -love each other. Poverty betrothed us, agony married us. I love Laurence -in all her ugliness and wretchedness, I love Laurence in her blue silk -rag, in her rough degradation. I do not wish another sort of a Laurence, -I do not wish a spotless innocent with a white soul and rosy -countenance. - -I do not know what are my companion's thoughts, I do not know whether my -kisses delight or fatigue her. She is paler and graver than of old. With -closed lips, staring eyes and expressionless face, she returns my -caresses with a sort of repressed strength. Sometimes, she seems weary, -as if she were discouraged at searching for something which she could -not find; but soon she appears to resume her task and search anew, -looking me in the face, her hands upon my shoulders. Besides, she has -still the same weary appearance, the same dull soul; she sleeps -constantly with her eyes open, and awakes with a start when I place my -lips upon hers. When I told her of my love, she showed considerable -astonishment, then, for two weeks, she lived a younger and more active -life; a few days ago, she fell back into her eternal sleep. - -But what difference does this make to me? I do not as yet feel that I -need Laurence to love me. I am at that point of supreme selfishness -which, in love, is satisfied with its own tenderness. I love and desire -nothing more; I forget myself in the society of this woman and ask no -other consolation. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII - -JACQUES' SUPPER - - -Last evening, there was a grand fête at Jacques' apartment. Pâquerette -came in the afternoon to tell us that our neighbors expected us to -supper at eleven o'clock. Imprisoned as I was for lack of clothing, I -did not refuse the invitation, being desirous of procuring some -amusement for Laurence. - -After Pâquerette's departure, we debated the important question of -pantaloons. It was decided that Laurence should cut me out a pair of -short breeches from a piece of green serge, which had long lain about -upon the floor. She went to work, and, two hours afterwards, I was -costumed like a lighterman in a shirt of doubtful whiteness, with a -strip of damask around my waist to support my breeches. - -Laurence then cleaned her blue silk dress, as much as possible, with a -dampened rag. She brightened it up by stretching the stuff over one of -her knees and rubbing it; she even pushed the repairs so far as to sew -around the sleeves and corsage a little lace, which had once been white -but was now yellow and rumpled. - -Our entrance was triumphal. Jacques and Marie pretended to believe that -a bit of pleasantry was intended; they applauded us, as actors are -applauded who attain the effect they desire to produce. I was a trifle -ashamed; I did not feel at ease until no one paid any further attention -to my short breeches of green serge. - -We found Pâquerette installed in an arm-chair. I know not how that -little old woman ever managed to get into the apartment of Jacques, who -is a cold young man and but little of a talker. She has the suppleness -of a serpent and a honeyed and trembling voice which force the best -closed doors. She appeared perfectly at home; she spread herself out -carefully, passing her dry hands over her skirts, partially throwing -back her head, opening and shutting her gray eyes lost among the -wrinkles of her face. She seemed to taste in advance the delicacies -placed beside her on a table. - -Marie, who had arisen on our arrival, seated herself again in a corner -of the sofa; the flushes on her cheeks shone more brightly than usual, -and she laughed, displaying her white teeth. Jacques, standing before -the mantelpiece, politely listened to what she had to say, always grave -but affectionate, almost smiling. - -They had brought forward chairs for us. The chamber was brilliantly -lighted by two candelabra, each containing five candles, placed upon the -table. This table, loaded with bottles and plates, had been pushed -against the wall to make room, there to await its opportunity to occupy -the middle of the apartment. The curtains of the bed were drawn; the -floor, the hangings and the furniture seemed to have been brushed and -washed with care. We were in the midst of luxury, in the midst of -festivity. - -I was about to participate, for the first time, in one of those suppers -of which I had formerly dreamed in Provence. I was calm and -self-possessed. Laurence smiled and I was happy in her joy. There is in -the brightness of candles, in the sight of bottles red with wine, of -plates full of cakes and cold meats, in the sensation produced by a -close chamber, luminous and saturated with indefinable perfumes, a sort -of physical comfort which puts thought to sleep. My companion, her lips -parted, had, doubtless, again found well-known odors in that apartment. -As for me, I felt the blood flow with increased warmth and rapidity in -my veins; I experienced an inclination to laugh and drink, urged on by -my now thoroughly awakened nature. - -Besides, the chamber was quiet, the bursts of gayety softened, the -entertainment decent and orderly. We drank a glass of Madeira, talking -with the utmost calmness. This tranquillity made me impatient, I was -tempted to cry out. The two young women had taken places beside -Pâquerette, and the trio were conversing in low tones. I heard the -broken voice of the old woman like a murmur, while Jacques was -explaining to me the reason of the festival. He had just passed an -examination successfully and was celebrating the event. He was more -expansive and less the practical man than usual; he abandoned his -customary gravity further, forgetting to talk of his future position, -going even so far as to speak of his youth. Jacques, to tell the plain -truth, was intoxicated with joy; he consented to play the fool, because -he was a step higher up on the ladder leading to wisdom. - -Finally we went to table. I had waited for this moment. I filled my -glass and drank. I was exceedingly hungry, as was natural with a man who -lived on crusts; but I disdained the cakes and the cold meats; I turned -my attention to the wine, white or red. I did not drink from need of -intoxication, I drank for the sake of drinking, because it seemed to me -that I was there to empty my glass. I acquitted myself of that task most -conscientiously, and I experienced a sensation of joy on feeling my -limbs grow weaker little by little and my ideas become confused. - -At the expiration of half an hour, the flames of the candles paled and -spread out, the chamber grew red in every part, a dim and vacillating -red. My reason, which had been wavering, was strengthened in a strange -fashion; it had acquired a frightful lucidity. I was intoxicated; I must -have had upon my countenance the stupid mask and idiotic smile of -drunkards; but, within me, in the depths of my intelligence, I felt -myself calm and sensible, I reasoned in full liberty. It was a terrible -species of drunkenness; I suffered from the weakening of my body, which -was greatly overcome, and from the vigor of my mind, which saw and -judged. - -Amid the clatter of glasses and forks, I looked at the women and -Jacques, who were laughing and chatting among themselves. Their visages -and their words came to me sharply and clearly, producing a sensation -painful in its sharpness and penetration. My love was still in me, -troubling and transforming my being; but the man of other days, the -philosophical reasoner, had been again awakened. I took delight in my -intoxication and in Laurence, at the same time thoroughly comprehending -the nature of these two disgraces. - -Jacques was seated at my left; I know not if he had succeeded in -intoxicating himself; however, he feigned to be under the influence of -liquor. Seated opposite to me were the three women, Marie on my right, -then Pâquerette, then Laurence, who was on Jacques' left. My looks were -fixed upon these women, who seemed to me to possess new visages and -tones of voice. - -I had not seen Marie since the day I had found her upon the sofa, white -and languishing. Then, she looked like a young girl in the last stage of -consumption. Now, her flaxen locks hanging loosely, her face flushed -with excitement, her cheeks tinged with a pale violet, she agitated her -bare arms with the fever of an ignorant child who is marching to her -first delight. I was bewildered by the brightness of her youthful -countenance. - -I cannot describe the painful sensation produced in me by this creature, -who had thrown off her agony to laugh and drink, to try to enjoy the -delicious anguish of that life which she had unconsciously lived in her -childish innocence. As I stared at her, quivering and with her hair thus -dishevelled, her eyes flashing and her lips humid, it seemed to me, in -the bewilderment of my intoxication, that I was gazing upon some -expiring creature, who, on her death bed, suddenly hears the voice of -her senses and her heart, and who, hesitating, not knowing what to do at -that supreme moment, nevertheless does not wish to die before having -satisfied her vague longings. - -Laurence also had grown exceedingly animated. She was almost beautiful -amid her unwonted excitement. Her visage had assumed a terrible -expression of frankness and abandonment, which imparted to each of her -features a look of the utmost insolence; her entire countenance had -become lengthened; broad, square sections, crossed by deep lines, -divided in a marked manner her cheeks and throat into firm and -disdainful masses. She was pale, and several beads of perspiration stood -on her forehead at the roots of her hair which was puffed straight up on -her low, flat head. Reclining in her arm-chair, her face dead and -distorted, her eyes black and glowing, she appeared to me like the -frightful image of a woman who has weighed in her hand all the delights -of the world and who now refuses them, finding them too light. At times, -I fancied that she looked at me, shrugging her shoulders, that she -smiled on me in pity, and that I heard her say to me, in a hoarse and -horrid whisper: "So you love me, do you? What do you want of me? -Physically I am no more than a corpse, and as for a heart, I never had -one!" - -Pâquerette looked thinner and more wrinkled than I had ever seen her -before. Her face, like a dried apple, seemed to be more wasted than -usual and had acquired a faint tinge of brick red. Her eyes were no -longer anything but two brilliant points. She wagged her head in a mild -and amiable way, chattering like a sharp-toned bird organ. She enjoyed, -besides, perfect calmness, although she alone had eaten and drunk as -much as all the rest of us together. - -I stared at all three of them. The confusion of my brain, which -exaggerated their dimensions, made them oscillate strangely before me. I -said to myself that every species of dissipation was represented at this -festival: youthful and careless dissipation, dissipation ripe in its -frankness, dissipation which has grown old and lives amid its whitened -locks on the remembrance of its follies of other days. For the first -time, I saw these women together, side by side. They alone were a whole -world in themselves. Pâquerette ruled, as became her old age; she -presided; she called the two unfortunates who caressed her "my -daughters." There was, however, intense cordiality between them; they -talked to each other like sisters, without thinking of the difference in -their ages. My bewildered glances confounded the three heads; I knew no -longer above which forehead was the white hair. - -Jacques and I were opposite to these women. We were young; we were -celebrating a success of intelligence. I was on the point of quitting -the apartment, brothers, and running to you. Then, I indulged in a burst -of laughter, a very loud one, without doubt, for the women stared at me -in astonishment. I said to myself that this was the kind of society amid -which I was destined, for the future, to live. I closed my eyes and saw -angels, clad in long blue robes, who were ascending in a pale light, -full of sparks. - -The supper had been exceedingly gay. We had sung and we had talked. It -seemed to me that the chamber was filled with a thick smoke, which -stopped up my throat and stung my eyes. Then, everything whirled about; -I thought that I was going to sleep, when I heard a distant voice, which -cried out, with the sound of a cracked bell: - -"We must embrace each other! we must embrace each other!" - -I half opened my eyes, and saw that the cracked bell was Pâquerette, -who had just climbed upon her chair. She was shaking her arms and -giggling. - -"Jacques! Jacques!" cried she, "embrace Laurence! She is a good girl, -and I give her to you to drive away your weariness! And you, Claude, -poor sleepy child, embrace Marie, who loves you and offers you her lips! -Come, let us embrace each other, let us embrace each other and amuse -ourselves a trifle!" - -And the little old woman sprang from her arm-chair to the floor. - -Jacques leaned over and gave a kiss to Laurence, who immediately -returned it. Then, I turned towards Marie, who, with outstretched arms -and head thrown back, was waiting for me. I was about to kiss her on the -forehead, when she threw her head still further back and offered me her -mouth. The light of the candles fell upon her face. My eyes were fixed -on her eyes, and I noticed in the depths of her glance a brightness of a -pure blue tint which seemed to me to be her soul. - -As I bent down, still contemplating Marie's soul, I felt the touch of -cold lips on my neck. I turned instantly; Pâquerette was there, -laughing, clapping her dry hands. She had embraced Jacques and had come -to embrace me in my turn. I wiped my neck, with a shiver of disgust. - -Seven o'clock struck; a wan brightness announced the advent of day. All -was over; we had now nothing to do but to separate. As I was leaving the -room, Jacques threw across my shoulder a coat and a pair of pantaloons -which I did not even think of refusing. Pâquerette ascended the stairs -in front of us, bearing a candle in her hand and holding aloft her thin -arm that she might the better illuminate our way. - -When we had reached our garret, I thought of the embraces we had -exchanged. I looked at Laurence; I imagined that I saw her lips red from -contact with Jacques' lips. I had still before me, in the gloom, the -blue glimmer which had burned in the depths of Marie's eyes. I trembled, -I knew not why, at the vague thoughts which came to me; then, I fell -into a restless and feverish slumber. As I slept, I again felt on my -neck the cold and painful sensation produced by Pâquerette's mouth; I -dreamed that I passed my hand over my skin, but that I could not free -myself from those frightful lips which were freezing me. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX - -A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY - - -Sunday, on opening the window, I saw that the spring had returned. The -air had grown warmer, though it was yet somewhat chilly; I felt amid the -last quivers of winter the first fervid glow of the sun. I breathed my -fill of this wave of life rolling in the sky; I was delighted with the -warm and somewhat biting perfumes which arose from the earth. - -Each spring my heart is rejuvenated, my flesh becomes lighter. There is -a purification of my entire being. - -At the sight of the pale, clear sky, of a shining whiteness at dawn, my -youth awakened. I looked at the tall wall; it was well-defined and neat; -tufts of grass were growing between the stones. I glanced into the -street: the stones and sidewalks had been washed; the houses, over which -the rain storms had dashed, laughed in the sunlight. The young season -had imparted its gayety to everything. I folded my arms tightly; then, -turning around, I cried out to Laurence: - -"Get up! get up! Spring is summoning you!" - -Laurence arose, while I went out to borrow a dress and a hat from Marie, -and twenty francs from Jacques. The dress was white, sown with lilac -bouquets; the hat was trimmed with broad red ribbons. - -I hurried Laurence, dressing her hair myself, so eager was I to get out -into the sunlight. In the street, I walked rapidly, without lifting my -head, waiting for the trees; I heard with a sort of thoughtful emotion -the sound of voices and footsteps. In the Luxembourg Garden, opposite -the great clusters of chestnut trees, my legs bent under me and I was -compelled to sit down. I had not been out of doors for two months. I -remained seated on the bench in the garden for a full quarter of an -hour, in an ecstasy over the young verdure and the young sky. I had come -out of darkness so thick that the bright spring bewildered and dazzled -me. - -Then, I said to Laurence that we would walk for a long, long while, -straight ahead, until we could walk no longer. We would go thus into the -warm but still moist air, into the perfumed grass, into the broad -sunlight. Laurence, who had also been aroused by the revivifying -influence of the balmy season, arose and drew me along, with hurried -steps, like a child. - -We took the Rue d'Enfer and the Orleans road. All the windows were open, -displaying the furniture within the houses. Upon the thresholds of the -street doors stood men in blouses, who engaged in friendly chat with -each other while smoking. We heard bursts of hearty laughter coming out -from the shops. Everything which surrounded me, streets, houses, trees -and sky, seemed to me to have been carefully cleaned. The sky had an -unusually enticing and new look, white with cleanliness and light. - -At the fortifications, we encountered the first grass, short yet, but -spread out like a vast carpet of light green and emitting a perfume -intoxicating in its delicious freshness. We went down into the moat, -making our way along beside the high gray walls, penetrating with -curiosity into their secluded corners. On one side was the pale-hued -stretch of wall, on the other the verdant slope. We advanced as if in a -deserted and silent street which had no houses. In some of the corners -the sun's rays had massed themselves, and had caused to shoot up tall -thistles which were peopled by a whole nation of insects--beetles, -butterflies and bees; these corners were full of buzzing sounds and -grateful warmth. But, that morning, the slope threw its delightful -shadow at our feet; we walked noiselessly upon a fine, thick turf, -having before us a narrow band of sky, against which stood out in full -light the meagre trees which rose above the wall. - -The moats of the fortifications are little deserts, amid which I have -very often forgotten myself and my troubles. The narrow horizon, the -shade and the silence, which render more audible the hollow murmur of -the great city and the bugles of the neighboring soldiers' barracks, -make them peculiarly dear to boys, to little and grown up children. -There, one is in an excavation at the gates of the city, feeling it pant -and start, but no longer perceiving it. For half an hour, Laurence and I -contented ourselves with this ravine which made us forget the houses and -the beaten paths; we were a thousand leagues from Paris, far from every -habitation, seeing only stones, grass and sky. Then, already -suffocating, eager for the plain, we joyously ran up the slope. The -broad country stretched out before us. - -We found ourselves amid the airy and unconfined lands of Montrouge. -These neglected and muddy fields are stricken with eternal desolation, -poverty and lugubrious poesy. Here and there, the soil is cleft -frightfully, as with a horrible yawn, displaying, like open entrails, -old and abandoned stone quarries, wan and deep. Not a tree is to be -seen; huge windlasses alone stand out against the low, sad horizon. The -lands have I know not what miserable aspect, and are covered with -nameless wrecks. The roads twist, plunge into hollows and stretch away -in a melancholy fashion. New huts in ruins and heaps of rubbish thrust -themselves upon the eye at each turn of the paths. Everything has a raw -look--the black lands, the white stones and the blue sky. The entire -landscape, with its unhealthy aspect, its roughly cut up sections and -its gaping wounds, has the indescribable sadness of countries which the -hand of man has torn. - -Laurence, who had become thoughtful in the moats of the fortifications, -timidly clung to me as we were crossing the desolated plain. We walked -on silently, sometimes turning to glance at Paris, which was grumbling -in the distance. Then, we brought back our eyes to our feet, avoiding -the gaps in the ground, contemplating with saddened souls this plain, -the open wounds of which were brutally shown by the sun. Afar off were -the churches, the Panthéons and the royal palaces; here were the ruins -of an overturned soil, which had been searched and robbed to build these -temples to men, to kings and to God. The city explained the plain; Paris -had at its threshold the desolation which all grandeur causes. I know of -nothing more mournful or more lamentable than those unconfined lands -which surround great cities; they are not yet a part of the town and -they are no longer the country; they have the dust, the mutilations of -man, and have no longer the verdure or the tranquil majesty given them -by God. - -We were in haste to flee. Laurence had bruised her feet; she was afraid -of this disorder, of this melancholy which reminded her of our chamber. -As for me, I found in this wretched spot my love, my troubles and my -bleeding life. We hurried away. - -We descended a hill. The Bièvre river flowed along at the bottom of the -valley, bluish and thick. Trees, here and there, bordered the stream; -tall houses, sombre, narrow and pierced with immense windows, loomed up -lugubriously. The valley was more discouraging than the plain; it was -damp, oily and full of disagreeable smells. The tanneries there emitted -sharp and suffocating odors; the waters of the Bièvre, that sort of -common sewer open to the sky, exhaled a fetid and powerful stench which -gave me a choking sensation. It was no longer the sad and gray -desolation of Montrouge; it was the disgusting sight of a gutter, black -with mud and refuse, bearing away with its waters horrible odors. A few -poplar trees had grown vigorously in this reeking soil, and, above, -against the clear sky, were pictured the long white lines of the -Hôpital de Bicêtre, that frightful abode of madness and death, which -worthily towers over the unhealthful and ignoble valley. - -Despair seized upon me; I asked myself if I should not stop where I was -and pass the day upon the borders of the sewer. I could not, it seemed, -quit Paris, I could not escape from the gutter. Filth and infamy -followed me even into the fields; the waters were corrupted, the trees -had an unhealthy vigor, my eyes encountered only wounds and suffering. -This must be the country which God now reserved for me. Each Sunday, I -would come, with Laurence on my arm, to promenade upon the banks of the -Bièvre, beside the tanneries, and to talk of love in that sink; I would -come, at the noontide hour, to seat myself with my sweetheart on the -oily ground, yielding to the awful influence of that dead creature and -of the wretched valley. I paused in terror, ready to return to Paris on -a run, and glanced at Laurence. - -Laurence had her weighed down look, her look of want and premature old -age. The smile she wore at her departure from the city had vanished. She -seemed weary and dull; she looked around her, calmly, without disgust. I -thought I saw her in our chamber; I realized that this slumbering soul -needed more sunlight and nature of a gentler aspect to restore the -innocence of a young girl's fifteenth year. - -Then, I grasped her tightly by the arm; without permitting her to turn -her head, I dragged her along, reascending the hill, always pushing -straight ahead, following the roads, crossing the meadows, in quest of -the young and virgin spring. For two hours we went along thus, in -silence, rapidly. We passed two or three villages--Arcueil, -Bourg-la-Reine, I believe; we hurried over more than twenty paths, -between white walls and green hedges. Then, as we were about to leap -across a narrow brook, in a valley full of foliage, Laurence uttered a -childish shout, a burst of laughter, and escaped from my arm, running -among the grass, all gayety, all innocence. - -We were upon a large square of turf, planted with trees, with tall -poplars, which arose like a jet of water, majestically, and balanced -themselves languidly in the blue air. The turf was close and thick, dark -in the shade and golden in the sunlight; one might have called it, when -the wind agitated the poplars, a broad carpet of silk with changing -reflections. All around extended cultivated lands, covered with shrubs -and plants: there was a sea of leaves at the horizon. A white house, low -and long, which was in the shade, at the edge of a neighboring grove of -trees, stood out gayly against all this green. Further away, higher up, -on the edge of the sky, across the shadows, were seen the first roofs of -Fontenay-aux-Roses. - -The verdure was of recent growth, it had virgin freshness and innocence; -the young leaves, pale and tender, in transparent masses, seemed like -light and delicate lace placed upon the great blue veil of the sky. The -tree trunks themselves, the rough old trunks, appeared as if newly -painted; they had hidden their wounds beneath fresh moss. It was a -universal song, a bright and caressing gayety. The stones and the lands, -the sky and the waters, all appeared neat, vigorous, healthy and -innocent. The recently awakened country, green and golden beneath the -broad azure sky, laughed in the light, intoxicated with sap, youth and -purity. - -And amid this youth, this purity, ran Laurence in the full light, amid -the flowing sap. She plunged into the grass, drank in the pure air; she -had again found her fifteenth year upon the bosom of this country which -had not been green fifteen days. The young verdure had refreshed her -blood; the young sunlight had warmed her heart, given roses to her -cheeks. All her being had awakened in this awakening of the earth; like -the earth, she had resumed her innocence under the mild influence of the -season. - -Laurence, supple and strong, ran wildly about, carried away by the new -life which was singing in her being. She lay down, she arose, with -vivacity, bursting out laughing; she stooped to pick a flower, then fled -between the trees, afterwards returning all in a rosy glow. Her entire -face was animated; its features, unbent and rendered supple, had a -healthful expression of genuine joy. Her laugh was frank, her voice -sonorous and her gestures caressing. Seated, with my back against the -trunk of a tree, I followed her with my eyes, white amid the grass, her -hat fallen upon her shoulders; I was pleased with the pretty dress, so -neat and light, which she wore chastely, and which gave her the air of a -turbulent schoolgirl. She ran to me, threw me, stalk by stalk, the -flowers she had gathered--marguerites and gold buttons, eglantines and -lilies of the valley; then, she started off again, shining in the -sunlight, pale and dim in the shade, like an insect buzzing in the -light, without the ability to pause. She filled the grass and leaves -with noise and motion; she peopled the secluded corner in which we were; -the spring had assumed more brightness, more life, since this woman, who -had as if by enchantment become a spotless child, had been laughing amid -the verdure. - -Fresh, blooming, all of a quiver, Laurence came to me and seated herself -at my side. She was moist with dew; her bosom rose and fell quickly, -full of young and fresh breath. From her came a delightful odor of grass -and health. I had at last beside me a woman who lived abundantly, -purely, looking straight at the light. I leaned over and kissed Laurence -on the forehead. - -She took the flowers, one by one, arranging them in a bouquet. The sun -was ascending, the shadows were darker; around us reigned complete -silence. Lying flat on my back, I gazed at the sky, I gazed at the -leaves, I gazed at Laurence. The sky was of a dead blue; the leaves, -already languishing, were sleeping in the sunshine; Laurence, with her -head bent down, calm and smiling, was hurrying through her task with -quick and supple movements. I could not take my eyes from that partially -reclining woman, lost amid her skirts, her forehead in gilded shade, who -seemed to me innocent and active, restored to her fifteenth year. I felt -such peace, such deep joy, that I feared either to stir or speak; I -lived in the thought that spring was in me, around me, and that Laurence -was purity itself; I lost myself in this dream of the spotlessness of my -sweetheart and the worthiness of my love. At length I loved a woman; -that woman laughed, that woman existed; she possessed the healthful -color and the frank gayety of youth. The miserable days of the past were -no more, the future appeared to me with a calm and splendid brightness. -My dreams of innocence and my love of light were about to be satisfied; -from this hour, a life of ecstasy and tenderness would commence. I -thought no more of the Bièvre, that black sewer upon the borders of -which I had had the frightful temptation to sit down and embrace -Laurence. I now wished to inhabit the white dwelling, down there, at the -edge of the grove of trees, to live in it forever with my sweetheart, -with my wife, amid the dew, amid the sunlight, amid the pure air. - -Laurence had finished her bouquet and tied it with a sprig of grass. It -was eleven o'clock, and we had not yet eaten anything. It was necessary -for us to quit these trees, beneath which my soul had loved for the -first time, and go in quest of an inn. I walked on ahead, across the -country, through narrow paths bordered with fields of strawberry plants. -Laurence followed me, holding up her skirts, forgetting herself at each -hedge. Suddenly, at the turn of a road, we found what we were looking -for. - -The Coup du Milieu, the inn we entered, is situated in a corner of land -between Fontenay and Sceaux, near the pond of Plessis-Piquet. From -without, one sees only a grove, a patch of verdure, about twenty trees -which have grown vigorously; on Sundays, a sound of knives and forks, of -laughter and songs, floats from this immense nest. Within, when one has -passed through the door surmounted by a broad sign placed across it, and -when one has descended a gentle slope, one finds himself in an alley -shaded by foliage, bordered by groves to the right and to the left; each -of these groves is provided with a long table and two benches, fastened -in the ground, reddened and blackened by the rain. At its further end, -the alley widens; there is a glade, and a swing hangs between two trees. - -The groves were silent and deserted. Men in blue blouses, peasants, were -swinging; a huge dog was sitting gravely in the middle of the alley. -Laurence and I sat down beneath an arbor, at a large table intended to -accommodate twenty persons. It was almost dark under the leaves, the -coolness was penetrating. In the distance, we saw, between the branches, -the country shining in the sunbeams, sleeping beneath the first rays. -The acacias of the grove had bloomed the previous day; the mild and -sweet odor of their flower clusters filled the calm and caressing air. - -A servant spread a napkin over the end of the table, in guise of a -cloth; then we were served with what we had ordered, mutton chops, eggs, -I cannot remember exactly what. The wine, contained in a small jug of -bluish stone, rasped the throat; a trifle rough and sharp, it stimulated -the appetite marvellously. Laurence literally devoured all that was -placed before her; I did not recognize those beautiful and hungry white -teeth, biting the bread, as my companion laughed aloud. Never had I -eaten with such enjoyment. I felt myself light in soul and body; I -surprised myself believing that I was yet a student of those old days, -when we went to bathe in the little river and dine upon the grass of the -bank. I loved the white linen on the black table, the shade of the -foliage, the iron forks, the rude crockery ware; I looked at Laurence; I -lived abundantly in the plenitude of my sensations, intensely enjoying -everything which surrounded me. - -At dessert, the chief cook came to receive our congratulations. He was a -tall old man, a trifle bent, clad all in white. He wore a cotton cap, -and had, pushed back upon his temples, two tufts of grayish and curled -hair, among which a few curl papers had been forgotten. Laurence laughed -for an hour at his excellent face, at once subtle and simple. - -I cannot tell what we did to pass away the time until evening. The day -was a day of sunshine, of bewilderment. I know not what paths we took, -what shady spots we chose to rest in. There is, when I think of those -hours of ecstasy, a dazzling splendor before my eyes. The remembrance of -details is rebellious; my entire being has the sensation of a great -felicity, of a grand light. It seems to me vaguely that Laurence and I -forgot ourselves in the midst of a ravine, among the moss, seeing only a -vast stretch of sky; we remained there, hand clasping hand, speaking but -little, intoxicated with our new experience; our eyes, turned -heavenward, were filled with brightness even to the point of blindness; -we no longer saw anything save our hearts and our thoughts. But all this -is, perhaps, a dream; my memory is treacherous--I am conscious only of -having been blind, of having caught glimpses of thousands of stars amid -the darkness. - -In the evening, without knowing how, we again found ourselves at the -Coup du Milieu. A crowd was there. Young women and young men filled the -groves, making a great noise and confusion; white dresses, red and blue -ribbons, stained the light green of the leaves; bursts of merry laughter -gently rippled along amid the twilight. Candles had been lighted upon -the tables, pricking with luminous points the growing obscurity. Some -Tyrolese were singing in the middle of the alley. - -We ate upon the end of a table, as in the morning, joining in the -general laughter, making efforts to get out of ourselves. The noisy -youth surrounding us frightened me a little; I thought I saw among my -neighbors many Jacqueses and many Maries. Between the tree branches, I -perceived a corner of the sky, pale and melancholy, as yet without -stars; I experienced much difficulty in taking my eyes from the calm -heavens to fix them upon the world of folly shouting around me. I -remember now that Laurence appeared to be excited and troubled. - -Then, silence was re-established; all the strangers had departed, and we -were left alone. I had resolved to sleep at the Coup du Milieu that I -might enjoy, on the morrow, the dew, the white brightness of the dawn. -While the servants were making preparations to accommodate us, Laurence -and I walked out into the garden, at the further end of which we seated -ourselves upon a bench. The night was mild, starry and transparent; -vague sounds arose from the earth; a horn, on a neighboring height, -complained in a faint and caressing tone. The plain, with its great -masses of black, motionless foliage, stretched out its mysterious -limits; it seemed to sleep, quivering, agitated by a dream of love. - -Our chamber was damp. It was on the ground floor, low, new and already -degraded. Pieces of furniture were absent from their appointed places. -On the ceiling lovers had traced their names by passing the flame of a -candle over the plaster; the knotty and straggling letters spread out, -broad and black. I took a knife, and, like a child, cut the date beneath -a heart-shaped window which opened upon the country, without either -grating or shutter. - -The bed was excellent, if the chamber did not present a handsome -appearance. In the morning, on awaking, while still half asleep, I saw, -upon the wall facing me, a sight which I could not comprehend and which -filled me with terror. The chamber was yet dark; in the midst of the -darkness, on the wall, an enormous heart was bleeding. I imagined that I -felt my breast empty, and despairingly began to search within me for my -love. I felt my love biting at my vitals, and then I realized that the -sun had risen and that its rays were pouring in copious floods through -the heart-shaped window. - -Laurence arose; we opened the door and the window. A current of coolness -entered, bearing into the chamber all the odors of the delightful -country. The acacias, planted almost at the threshold, exhaled a milder -and sweeter perfume than on the preceding evening. The purity of dawn -rested upon the sky and upon the earth. - -Laurence drank a cup of milk, and, before returning to Paris, I -expressed a desire to climb to the wood of Verrières, in order to carry -back with me, in my heart, a breath of the pure air of the morning. -Above, in the wood, we walked with lingering steps along the verdant -paths. The forest was like a beautiful bride on the day after the -wedding; it had delicious tears, a youthful languor, a damp coolness, -lukewarm and penetrating perfumes. The sunlight at the horizon slipped -along obliquely, between the trees, in broad sheets; there was I know -not what mildness in those golden rays which rolled down to earth like -supple and dazzling silken veils. And, amid the coolness, we heard the -stir of the awakening wood, those thousands of little sounds which bear -witness to the life of the springs and of the plants; above our heads -floated the songs of birds, beneath our feet were the murmurs of -insects; all around us were sudden cracklings, the gurgling noises of -flowing waters, deep and mysterious sighs which seemed to issue from the -knotty sides of the oak trees. We advanced slowly, feeling an intense -and indescribable delight in lingering amid sunlight and shadow drinking -in the fresh air, striving to seize the confused words which the -hawthorns seemed to address to us as we passed by them. Oh! the gentle -and smiling morning, all soaked with happy tears, all softened with joy -and youth! The country had reached that adorable age when old Nature has -for a few days the delicate grace of infancy. - -I returned to Paris with Laurence on my arm, young and strong, -intoxicated with light and spring, my heart full of dew and love. I -loved worthily, as a true man should, and I believed that I was so loved -in return. - - - - -CHAPTER XX - -A BITTER AVOWAL - - -Spring has vanished; I have awakened from my dream. - -I know not the limit of my pitiful childishness; I know not what -miserable soul dwells within me. The reality penetrates me, shakes me; -my flesh is either acutely tortured or wildly delighted by what is; I am -like a body of exquisite sonorousness, which vibrates at the slightest -sensation; I have a sharp and clear perception of the society which -surrounds me. And my soul is pleased to refuse the truth; it escapes -from my flesh, it disdains my senses, it lives elsewhere amid deception -and hope. It is thus that I walk through life. I know and I see, I blind -myself and I dream. While I advance beneath the rain, in the midst of -the mud, while I am profoundly conscious of all the cold, of all the -dampness, I can, by means of a strange faculty, make the sun shine, be -warm, create for myself a mild and delicate sky, without ceasing to feel -the gloomy sky which presses down upon my shoulders. I do not ignore -anything, I do not forget anything. I live doubly. I carry into my -dreams the same frankness which I carry into real sensations. I have -thus two parallel existences, equally alive, equally intense--one which -passes here below, in my poverty, another which passes above, in the -immense and deep purity of the blue sky. - -Yes, such is, without doubt, the explanation of my being. I comprehend -my flesh, I comprehend my heart; I am conscious of my innocence and of -my infamy, of my love for illusion and of my love for truth. I am a -delicate machine made up of sensations--sensations of the soul and -sensations of the body. I receive and give back, quiveringly, the -slightest ray, the slightest odor, the slightest tenderness. I live on -too lofty a plane, crying out my sufferings, stammering forth my -ecstasies, in heaven and amid the mud, more crushed after each new -bound, more radiant after each new fall. - -The other day, amid the cool air, beneath the tall trees of Fontenay, my -flesh was softened, my heart had the mastery. I loved and I believed -myself loved in my turn. The truth escaped from me; I saw Laurence -clothed in white, young and pure; her kiss appeared to me to have so -much sweetness that it seemed to come from her soul. Now, Laurence is -here, seated upon the edge of the bed; to see her, pale and sorrowful, -in her soiled dress, makes my flesh quiver, my heart leap with -indignation. The spring time has flown; Laurence has grown old, she does -not love me. Oh! what a miserable child I am! I deserve to weep, for I -cause my own tears. - -What do I care for Laurence's ugliness, her infamy and her weariness! -Let her be uglier, more infamous and more weary, but let her love me! I -wish her to love me. - -I regret neither the graces of her fifteenth year nor her youthful smile -of the other day, when she ran about beneath the trees and was the good -fairy of my youth. No, I regret neither her beauty nor her freshness; I -regret the dream which led me to believe that her heart was in her -caresses. - -She is here, deplorable, crushed. I have, indeed, the right to exact -that she shall love me, that she shall give herself to me. I accept her -entire being, I want her as she is, asleep and weary, but I want her, I -want her, with all my will, with all my strength. - -I remember that I dreamed of reforming Laurence, that I wished her to -possess more reason, more reserve. What do I care for reserve, what do I -care for reason? I have no business with them now. I demand love, mad -and lasting love. I am eager to have my love returned, I do not wish -longer to love all alone. Nothing wearies the heart like caresses which -are not returned. I gave this woman my youth, my hopes; I shut myself up -with her in suffering and abjection; I forgot everything in the depths -of our gloom, even the crowd and its opinions. I can, it seems to me, -demand in exchange from this woman that she shall unite herself with me, -that she shall join her destiny to mine amid the desert of poverty and -abandonment in which we live. - -Spring is dead, I tell you. I dreamed that the young foliage was growing -green in the sunlight, that Laurence laughed madly amid the tall grass. -I find myself in the damp darkness of my chamber, opposite Laurence who -is sleeping; I have not quitted the wretched den, I have not seen either -the eyes or the lips of this girl open. Everything is deception. In this -crumbling of the true and the false, in this confused noise which life -causes within me, I feel but a single need, a sharp and cruel need: to -love, to be loved, no matter where, no matter how, that I may plunge -headlong into an abyss of devotion. - -Oh! brothers, later, if ever I emerge from the black night which holds -me captive, and the caprice should seize upon me to relate to the crowd -the story of my far off loves, I will, without doubt, imitate those -weepers, those dreamers, who deck with golden rays the demons of their -twentieth year and put wings upon their shoulders. We call the poets of -youth those liars who have suffered, who have shed all their tears, and -who, to-day, in their recollections, have no longer anything but smiles -and regrets. I assure you that I have seen their blood, that I have seen -their bare flesh, torn and full of pain. They have lived in suffering, -they have grown up in despair. Their sweethearts were vile creatures, -their love affairs had all the horrors of the love affairs of a great -city. They have been deceived, wounded, dragged in the mud; never did -they encounter a heart, and each one of them has had his Laurence, who -has made of his youth a desolate solitude. Then, the wound healed, age -came on, remembrance imparted its caressing charm to all the infamy of -the past, and they wept over their morbid love affairs. Thus they have -created a false world of sinful young women, of girls adorable in their -carelessness and their triviality. You know them all--the Mimi Pinsons -and the Musettes--you dreamed about them when you were sixteen, and, -perhaps, you have even sought for them. Their admirers were prodigal; -they accorded them beauty and freshness, tenderness and frankness; they -have made them shining types of unselfish love, of eternal youth; they -have thrust them upon our hearts, they have taken delight in deceiving -themselves. They lie! they lie! they lie! - -I will imitate them. Like them, without doubt, I shall deceive myself, I -shall believe in good faith the falsehoods which my recollections will -relate to me; like them, perhaps, I shall have cowardice and timidity -which will induce me not to speak loudly and frankly, telling what were -my love affairs and how utterly miserable they were. Laurence will -become Musette or Mimi; she will have youth, she will have beauty; she -will no longer be the mute, wretched woman who is now in my company--she -will be a giddy young girl, loving thoughtlessly, but thoroughly alive, -rendered more youthful and more adorable by her caprices. My den will be -transformed into a gay mansarde, blooming, white with sunlight; the blue -silk dress will be changed into a neat and graceful calico; my poverty -will be full of smiles, my tenderness will sparkle like a diamond. And I -will sing in my turn the song of my twentieth year, taking up the -refrain where the others have left it, continuing the sweet and lying -words, deceiving myself, deceiving those who shall come after me. - -Brothers, in these letters written for you alone, which I prepare day by -day, quivering yet from the terrible shocks I have received, I can be -rough, sharp, revealing everything, emphasizing my confessions. I give -myself up wholly, I spread my entire life out before you, I exhibit to -you my flesh and my blood: I wish to take my heart from my breast, to -show it to you, bleeding, sick, frank in its baseness and in its purity. -I feel myself better and worthier in confessing myself to you; I have an -immense pride amid my abasement; the deeper I descend, the more disdain, -the more superb indifference, I acquire. What a delicious thing is -frankness! Say to yourselves that, out of ten young men, eight have the -same life, the same youth, as I: some two or three in a hundred, -perhaps, become frightened and weep as I weep; the others, several -thousands, accept their lot and live in peace, infamous and smiling. All -lie. As for me, I wound myself, I admit to you with sobs what are my -love affairs, and tell you with what a terrible weight they stifle me. - -Later, I will lie. - -Nothing exists now, except the love of Laurence, which I have not and -which I exact. There is no more light, there is no longer a world, there -is no longer a crowd; in the gloom, a man and a woman are brought face -to face forever. The man, setting aside all his lofty aspirations, all -his appreciation of beauty, wishes to be loved by the woman, because he -is afraid of being alone, because he is cold and hungry, because he -loves himself. At the final day, when humanity is expiring, and when but -a single couple remain upon the earth, the struggle will be terrible, -the despair immense, if the last adorer cannot awaken the last -sweetheart from the dull sleep of the heart and the flesh. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI - -A HORRIBLE PROPOSITION - - -Marie changed her chamber yesterday; she now lodges upon the same -landing as I, in an apartment separated from mine by a simple partition. -The poor child is dying; she gives vent to a light and hollow cough, -with a sort of rattling in her throat after each attack of coughing. -Jacques, whose studious quietude was disturbed by this cough, decided -that the invalid would be more at her ease alone in a separate chamber. -He has engaged Pâquerette to watch over and take care of her. - -Last night, I heard for long hours Marie's cough and the rattling in her -throat. Laurence slept on tranquilly. The sound of each half stifled fit -which passed through the partition filled me with indescribable sadness. - -This morning, on arising, I went to see the dying girl. She was in bed, -white, resigned, still smiling. Her head, raised upon two pillows, had a -sort of gentle languor; her thin and almost transparent arms were -stretched out on the sheet beside her poor body, the sharp and -lamentable outlines of which could be seen beneath the covers. - -The chamber was dark and cold. It resembles mine, but is better -furnished, less dirty. A large window opens upon the high wall, which -looms up gloomily a few mètres from the front of the house. - -Marie was alone, motionless, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling -with that pensive and heart-rending air of invalids who already see -beyond life. Pâquerette had just gone down-stairs to get her breakfast. -On a small table, placed near an arm-chair, were an army of bottles, a -single glass and the remains of food. The thought came to me that -Pâquerette took more care of herself than of the dying girl. - -I kissed Marie's forehead; I seated myself upon the edge of the bed, -taking and holding one of her hands. She turned her head slowly and -smiled upon me, telling me that she was not in pain, that she was -resting herself. Her voice, a trifle hoarse, was reduced to a feeble and -caressing murmur. Her forehead inclined, she looked at me with her -feverish and enlarged eyes; astonishment and tenderness were mingled in -her full glances. My heart was wrung with pity at the sight of this poor -creature. I felt that I was on the point of bursting into tears. - -Pâquerette returned, loaded with new bottles and fresh food. She opened -the window, complaining of the bad air; she established herself -comfortably in the arm-chair, before the table; then, she began to eat -noisily, talking as she chewed, questioning Marie about her adorers, -about her past life. She seemed to ignore that the poor girl was sick; -she treated her like a lazy creature who loves to lie in bed and be -pitied. I looked with disgust at this woman, wrapped up in herself, -licking her greasy fingers, chuckling, bantering the dying girl with her -mouth full, and casting at me sullen and cynical glances, those -desperate glances which certain old women yet have in their reddened -eyes. - -Pâquerette, ceasing to eat, partially turned her arm-chair; then, -crossing her hands upon her skirts, she looked at us, at Marie and -myself, first at one and afterwards at the other, laughing a wicked -laugh. - -"Ah! my dear," said she to the sick girl, pointing at me her bony -finger, "isn't he a handsome young fellow! His heart is widowed and has -need of new love affairs!" - -Marie smiled sadly, closing her eyes, withdrawing her hand which mine -had kept. - -"You are deceived," I answered Pâquerette, after a moment's silence; -"my heart is not widowed. I love Laurence." - -Marie lifted her eyelids, and restored to me her fingers, which I found -more agitated, hotter, than before. - -"Laurence! Laurence!" sneered the old woman; "she is making a fool of -you! You are like all the rest of the men. They love those who betray -and abandon them. Look for another sweetheart, my poor Monsieur, look -for another sweetheart!" - -I did not hear distinctly, according ordinarily no attention whatever to -the chatter of this old woman. And yet, though I know not why, I felt a -vague uneasiness. An unknown warmth filled my being with a painful -quiver. - -"Listen, my children," added Pâquerette, taking her ease: "I am a kind -hearted woman, and it displeases me to see you made game of. You are -very nice, both of you, gentle as lambs, good as bread. It has been my -dream to see you married, and I well know that two better little -creatures were never brought together. So, Monsieur, accept Madame. -Every day, I meet Laurence and Jacques caressing each other on the -stairway!" - -I glanced at Marie. She was calm; the beating of her pulse had not -increased. She seemed to be dreaming with her eyes fixed on me, and, -perhaps, she saw me in her dream. The kisses which Jacques might have -given to Laurence did not disturb the tranquil friendship which she felt -for him. - -As for me, I felt the insupportable warmth mount to my breast and stifle -me. I knew not what was the sudden numbness which gave me a dull, deep -pain, penetrating even to my soul. I thought neither of Laurence nor -Jacques; I listened to Pâquerette and the suffocation augmented, -stopping up my throat. - -Pâquerette slowly rubbed her withered hands; her gray eyes, sunken -beneath her flabby eyelids, shone strangely in her yellow visage. She -resumed, in a voice more cracked than ever: - -"You stare at each other like a couple of stupid innocents! Have you not -understood, Claude? Jacques has taken Laurence from you; take Marie. Ah! -the little one smiles: she asks nothing better. In the way I suggest, no -one will be left disconsolate, no one will have any reproaches to make. -That's the fashion in which everything should be arranged in this life!" - -Marie impatiently lifted her hand, making her a sign to stop. The old -woman's sharp voice imparted a quiver to her emaciated flesh. Then, her -countenance assumed an expression of melancholy peace, an air of calm -ecstasy; she gazed at me thoughtfully, and said to me, in a penetrating -tone, a tone which I had never known her voice to possess: - -"Will you, Claude? I will love you so much!" - -And she sat upright. - -A fit of coughing threw her back upon the bed, her body horribly shaken, -all panting with pain. With arms open and twisted, with head thrown -backward, she was suffocating. Her partially uncovered breast, that poor -breast which suffering had made so infantile, so pure, rose and fell -frightfully as if torn by a furious tempest. Then, the terrible cough -passed away, and the girl stretched herself out, pale, her cheeks -violet, as if overwhelmed with fatigue and insensibility. - -I had remained seated upon the edge of the bed, shaken myself by the -torture of the dying girl. I had not dared to stir, nailed to my place -by pity and fright. What I had before me was so profoundly horrible and -so infinitely touching, so lamentable and so repulsive, that I know not -how to explain the holy fear which held me where I was, grieved, full of -disgust and compassion. I was tempted to beat Pâquerette, to drive her -away; I felt inclined to embrace Marie as a brother would embrace his -sister, to give her my blood to restore life and freshness to her -expiring flesh. - -So I had reached this point: a miserable old woman, whose career had -been one long dissipation, offered me the opportunity to exchange my -heart for another heart, to give up my sweetheart to one of my friends -and thus secure his of him; she showed me all the advantages of this -bargain, she laughed at the excellent joke. And the sweetheart whom she -wished to give me already belonged to death. Marie was dying, and Marie -extended her arms to me. Poor innocent! her strange purity hid from her -all the horror of her kiss. She offered her lips like a child, not -understanding that I would rather have died than touch her mouth, I, who -loved Laurence so much! Her pale flesh, burned by fever, had been -purified by suffering; but she was already dead, so to speak, -sanctified, and so pure that I would have deemed it sacrilegious to -reawaken in her a final quiver of earthly delight. - -Pâquerette curiously watched Marie's crisis. That woman does not -believe in the sufferings of others. - -"Something she ate choked her," she said, forgetting that the sick girl -had swallowed no solid food for two weeks. - -At these words, a blind rage took possession of me. I felt like slapping -that yellow, sneering face, and, as the wretched creature opened her -lips again: - -"Be quiet, will you!" I cried out to her, in a ringing and indignant -voice. - -The old woman drew back her arm-chair in terror. She stared at me, full -of fear and indecision; then, seeing that I was in earnest, she made a -gesture such as a drunken man might make and stammered, in a drawling -tone: - -"Then, if joking is prohibited, why don't you say so in plain words? As -for me, I always have a joke upon my lips, and so much the worse for -those who weep say I! You don't want Marie; very well, let us say no -more about it." - -And she pushed the arm-chair before the table; then, she poured out a -glass of wine, which she sipped slowly. - -I bent over Marie, whom suffering had put to sleep. There was a low -rattle in her throat. I kissed her on the forehead like a brother. - -As I was about going away, Pâquerette turned towards me. - -"Monsieur Claude," she cried, "you are not amiable, but, nevertheless, I -will give you a piece of good advice. If you love Laurence, keep a sharp -eye upon her!" - - - - -CHAPTER XXII - -THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL - - -I am jealous--jealous of Laurence! - -That Pâquerette has filled me with the most frightful torment. I have -descended, one by one, all the rounds of the ladder of despair; now, my -infamy and my sufferings are complete. - -I know the name of that unknown warmth which filled my breast and -stifled me. That warmth was jealousy, a burning wave of anguish and -terror. This wave has rolled upward, it has invaded my entire being. -Now, there is no portion of me which is not in pain and jealous, which -does not complain of the horrible pressure beneath which all my flesh -cries out. - -I know not in what manner others are jealous. As for me, I am jealous -with all my body, with all my heart. When doubt has once entered into -me, it watches, it works pitilessly; it wounds me every second, searches -me, constantly making further encroachments. The pain is physical; my -stomach is convulsed, my limbs grow heavy beneath me, my head feels -hollow, weakness and fever seize upon me. And, above these afflictions -of the nerves and muscles, I feel the anguish of my heart, deep and -terrifying, which weighs me down, burns me incessantly. A single idea -turns upon itself in the immense emptiness of my thoughts: I am no -longer loved, I am deceived; my brain beats like a bell with this one -sound, all my vitals have the same quiver, twisted and torn. Nothing -could be more painful than these hours of jealousy which strike me -doubly, in my body and in my affection. The suffering of the flesh and -the suffering of the heart are united in a sensation of overwhelming -weight, which is inexorable, crushing me constantly. And I hold my -breath, abandoning myself, descending deeper and deeper into my -suspicions, aggravating my wound, withdrawing myself from life, living -only in the thought which is ruthlessly gnawing me. - -If I suffered less, I would like to know of what my suffering is -composed. I would take a bitter pleasure in interrogating my body, in -questioning my tenderness. I am curious to see the uttermost depths of -my despair. Without doubt, a thousand wretched things are there--love, -selfishness, self-love, cowardice and evil passions, to say nothing of -the rebellion of the senses, of the vanities of the intelligence. This -woman who is going away from me, weary of my caresses, and who prefers -another to me, wounds me in every portion of my being; she disdains me, -she declares by her acts that she has found a love sweeter, purer, than -mine. Besides, there is, above all, a feeling of immense solitude. I -feel myself forsaken, I quiver with fright; I cannot live without this -creature, whom I have taken pleasure in regarding as an eternal -companion; I am cold, I tremble; I would rather die than remain -deserted. - -I exact that Laurence shall be mine. I have only her in the whole world, -and I cling to her as a miser clings to his beloved gold. My heart -bleeds when I think that, perhaps, Pâquerette is right, and that -to-morrow I shall be shorn of love. I do not wish to remain all alone in -my poverty, in the depths of my abjection. I am afraid. - -And, nevertheless, I cannot close my eyes to the terrible reality, I -cannot live in ignorance. Certain young men, when they feel that a woman -is necessary to them, accept her such as she is; they do not care to -risk their peace of mind by probing into her past life. So far as I am -concerned, I realize that I have not sufficient strength to ignore -anything. I doubt. My unfortunate mind urges me to disabuse or convince -myself; I must know everything about Laurence, that I may die if she has -resolved to abandon me. - -In the evening, I pretend to go out for a walk, and slip furtively into -Marie's apartment. Pâquerette is dozing; the dying girl smiles feebly -upon me, without turning her head. I go to the window and there -establish myself. From the window I keep a close watch, leaning out to -see into the courtyard and into Jacques' chamber. Sometimes, I partly -open the door and listen to the sounds on the stairway. These are cruel -hours. My excited mind toils laboriously, my limbs tremble with anxiety -and prolonged attention. When voices ascend from Jacques' chamber, -emotion stops up my throat. If I hear Laurence leave our mansarde and -she does not appear upon the threshold below, a burning sensation shoots -through my breast: I have counted the steps, and I say to myself that -she has stopped on the fourth floor. Then, I lean over into the -courtyard at the risk of falling; I long to climb in through that window -which opens five mètres below me. I imagine I hear the sound of kisses, -I think I catch my name uttered amid mocking laughter. Then, when -Laurence at last shows herself upon the threshold, in the courtyard, the -burning sensation shoots through me again. I remain leaning out of the -window, panting, broken. She surprises me, for I did not expect to see -her. I commence to doubt: I no longer know if I correctly counted the -steps she had to descend. - -For a long while, I have played this cruel game with myself. I placed -myself in ambush, and, the blood mounting to my eyes, I can no longer -recall what I saw. Conviction flees from me; suspicions are born and -die, more devouring each day. I have an infernal aptitude for spying out -and arguing concerning the causes of my suffering; my mind greedily -seizes upon the slightest facts; it masses them together, links them in -a continuous chain, draws marvellous conclusions from them. I execute -this little task with an astonishing lucidity; I compare, I discuss, I -accept, I reject, like a veritable examining magistrate. But, as soon as -I think I have possession of a certainty, my heart bursts out, my flesh -quivers, and I am no more than a child who weeps on feeling the reality -escape from him. - -I would like to penetrate into the lives of my companions, to examine -the mysteries; I am curious to analyze all I am ignorant of, I am -strangely delighted by those delicate operations of the intelligence -searching for an unknown solution. There is an exquisite enjoyment in -weighing each word, each breath; one has but a few vague grounds for -suspicion, and one arrives, by a slow, sure and mathematical march, at -the knowledge of the entire truth. I can employ my sagacity in the -service of my brethren. When I am concerned, however, I am agitated by -such deep emotion that I am unable either to see or hear. - -Last evening, I remained for two hours in Marie's chamber. The night was -dark and damp. Opposite, upon the bare wall, Jacques' window threw a -great square patch of yellow light. Shadows came and went in this square -patch; they had a fantastic look and extraordinary dimensions. - -I had heard Laurence close our door, and she had not gone down into the -courtyard. I recognized Jacques' shadow on the wall, long and straight, -tossing about with sharply defined and precise movements. There was -another shadow, a shorter one, slower and more undecided in its motions; -I thought that I also recognized this shadow, which seemed to me to have -an unruly head increased in size by a woman's chignon. - -At times, the square patch of yellow light stretched out, pale and wan, -empty and calm. I leaned out of the window, breathlessly; I stared with -painful attention, suffering from the emptiness and calmness of the -light, wishing with anguish that a black mass would appear, betraying to -me its secret. Then, suddenly, the square was peopled: a shadow passed -over it, two shadows mingled together, out of all proportion and so -strangely confused that I could neither seize the forms nor explain the -movements. My mind sought with despair for the meaning of these dark -stains which lengthened, broadened, sometimes permitting me to catch a -partial glimpse of a head or an arm. The head and the arm instantly lost -shape, melted into one perplexing spot of blackness. I no longer saw -anything but a sort of oscillating wave of ink, spreading in every -direction, smearing the wall. I strove to comprehend, and thought I -distinguished monstrous silhouettes of animals, strange profiles. I lost -myself in this distressing vision, this fearful nightmare; I followed -with terror those masses which danced without noise; I trembled at the -thought of what I was about to discover; I wept with rage on realizing -that all this had no meaning whatever, and that I would learn nothing. -Suddenly, the wave of ink, in a final leap, in a last contortion, flowed -along the wall, along the darkness. The square patch of yellow light was -again deserted and dull. The shadows had passed away, without revealing -anything to me. I leaned forward, overflowing with despair, awaiting the -terrible spectacle, saying to myself that my life depended upon those -black stains which were capering about on the yellowed walls. - -A sort of madness finally took possession of me in the presence of this -ironical drama which was being played opposite to me. These strange -personages, these rapid and incomprehensible scenes, mocked me; I wished -to put an end to this lugubrious farce. I felt myself broken by emotion, -devoured by doubt. - -I quietly left Marie's chamber; I removed my shoes and placed them upon -the landing; then, oppressed, anxious, I began to descend the stairway, -pausing upon every step, hearing the very silence, frightened by the -slightest sounds that mounted to me. Arrived in front of Jacques' door, -after five long minutes of fear and hesitation, I bent down slowly, -painfully, and heard the bones of my neck crack. I applied my right eye -to the keyhole, but saw only darkness. Then, I glued my ear against the -wood of the door: the silence seemed filled with buzzing sounds, but -there was in my head a great murmur which prevented me from hearing -distinctly. Flames passed before my eyes, a hollow and increasing -rumbling filled the corridor. The wood of the door burned my ear, it -appeared to me to be vibrating in every part. Behind that door I thought -I caught at times half stifled sighs; then, death seemed to me to have -passed through that chamber and left there intense and terrible silence. -And I knew no more. I could tear nothing definite from the frightful -stillness, from the oppressive gloom. I do not know how long I remained -bent down against the door; I remember only that the icy coldness of the -floor froze my feet and that a tremendous quaking shook my body, which -was covered with a cold perspiration. Anguish and terror held me nailed -to the spot, shrinking within myself, not daring to move, twisted by -jealousy, quivering as if I had just committed a crime. - -At last, I reascended the stairway, staggering, bruising myself against -the walls. I again opened Marie's window, still having need of -suffering, unable to withdraw myself from the biting delight of my -torments. The wall opposite was a sheet of blackness; the curtain had -fallen upon the drama, and night reigned. As I went out of the room, I -gazed at Marie who was slumbering peacefully, with clasped hands. I -believe that I knelt before the bed, addressing to I know not what -divinity a prayer, the words of which came spontaneously to my lips. - -I went to bed, shivering, and closed my eyes. I saw, through my eyelids, -the glimmer of the candle, placed upon a little table opposite me, and I -thus had a broad pink horizon which I peopled with lamentable figures. I -possess the sad power of dreaming, the faculty of creating from -fragments of every kind personages who almost breathe the breath of -actual life; I see them, I touch them; they play like living actors the -scenes which are passing through my mind. I suffer and I enjoy with -greater intensity as my ideas materialize themselves and as I perceive -them, my eyes closed, with all my senses, with all my flesh. - -Amid the pink glimmer, I saw Laurence and Jacques. I saw the chamber -which had appeared to me dark, silent, and now it was full of laughter, -of brilliancy. My companion and my friend, in a flood of sparkling -light, were chatting lovingly together; they sat there before my eyes, -playing their rôles in the miserable drama which my dismayed mind -dreamed. It was no longer a simple thought, an idea arising from heart -jealousy, but a series of horrible, living pictures of frightful -distinctness. I was shocked and cried out; I felt that the drama was -being enacted within me, that I could veil these images, but I took a -morbid delight in bringing them into bold relief, in giving their -outlines greater clearness, in bestowing upon them the hues of actual -life; I plunged at will into the horrible spectacle I had called up, -that I might suffer further torture. My doubts were transformed into -flesh and blood; I knew and I saw at last; I had found in my imagination -the full certainty for which I had vainly searched at Marie's window and -Jacques' door. - -Laurence entered and shut the door roughly. She brought in with her from -without an indescribable odor of tobacco and liquor. I did not open my -eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps and the rustling of her -garments while she was disrobing. I looked at the pink glimmer, and, -beyond it, it seemed to me that I saw this woman, when she passed before -me, laugh in scornful pity and mock me with a gesture, believing that I -was asleep. - -She sat down in a chair, uttering a slight sigh, and leisurely concluded -her preparations for the night. Then, all the pain I had experienced -during that terrible evening returned and mounted to my throat. An -utterly boundless rage took entire possession of me at the sight of this -cold and treacherous creature calmly taking her ease, and seeming to -have wholly forgotten me. I sat up in bed, clenching my fists. - -"Where have you been?" I asked Laurence, in a hollow voice, trembling -with anger. - -She slowly opened her eyes, which were already half-closed, and stared -at me for an instant, astonished, without replying. Then, with a shrug -of her shoulders, she answered: - -"I have been to the fruit-woman's up the street. She invited me -yesterday to visit her, this evening, and drink coffee with her." - -I saw her face from forehead to chin: her weary eyelids hung down, so -heavy with sleep were they; her features wore an expression of satiety -and satisfaction. I felt the blood blind me to see her so contented, -caring so little for having forsaken me. Her neck, broad and puffed up, -was extended towards me, soliciting me to commit a crime; it was thick -and short, impudent and shameless; it shone insolently, mocking and -defying me. Everything which surrounded me had disappeared; I no longer -saw anything but that neck. - -"You lie!" I cried. - -And I seized the neck with my bent fingers, red flashes passing before -my eyes. I shook Laurence violently, grasping her with all my strength. -She did not offer the slightest resistance, but swayed to and fro -beneath my hands, without a complaint, flabby and brutalized. I know not -what pleasure I experienced on feeling her warm and supple body bend, -yield to the force of my mad rage. Then, an icy shiver penetrated me and -I was filled with fear: I thought I saw blood trickle along my fingers; -I threw myself back upon the pillow, sobbing, intoxicated with grief. - -Laurence put her hand to her neck. She took three long breaths; then, -she sat down again, turning her back to me, without a word, without a -tear. - -I had shaken her hair loose. Upon the nape of her neck I perceived a -bluish trace, made darker by the shadow of her locks which half -concealed her shoulders. My tears blinded me, my heart was full of -strong and tender compassion. I wept over myself who had just ill -treated a woman, I wept over Laurence whose bones I had heard cry out -beneath my fingers. My entire being was a prey to keen remorse; my -tortured soul despairingly sought to repair what could never be -forgotten. I recoiled, in disgust and fright, from the wild beast which -I had felt awaken and die within me; I suffered from terror, shame and -pity. - -I approached Laurence; I clasped my arms around her, whispering in her -ear, in a doleful and caressing tone. I know not what I said to her. My -heart was full and I emptied it. My words were a long prayer, ardent and -humble, meek and violent, overflowing with pride and baseness. I spoke -of the past, of the present, of the future; I told the story of my -heart, without the least reserve; I probed the utmost depths of my -being, in order that I might hide nothing. I had need of pardon, I had -also need of pardoning my companion. I accused Laurence, I demanded -loyalty and frankness of her. I told her how much she had made me weep. -I did not address reproaches to her the better to excuse myself; my lips -opened in spite of me, all the present filled me, my daily thoughts -united in a single tender and resigned complaint, free from even the -least trace of anger, the least trace of animosity. My reproaches and -confessions were mingled with sudden outpourings of love and tenderness; -I spoke the puerile and indescribable language of excitement, soaring to -the very sky, dragging myself along the ground; I made use of the -adorable and ridiculous poesy of children and lovers; I was mad, -passionate, intoxicated. And I went on thus, as in a dream, questioning, -answering, speaking in a deep and regular voice, pressing Laurence -against my bosom. For a whole hour I heard the words which, of -themselves, flowed from my mouth, gentle, touching; I solaced myself by -listening to this penetrating music; it seemed to me that my poor, -wounded heart was rocking itself and putting itself to sleep. - -Laurence, impassible, her eyes open, stared at the wall. My voice did -not appear to reach her. She sat there as mute, as dead, as if she had -been in the midst of thick darkness, in the midst of profound silence. -Her hard forehead, her cold and tightly closed lips, announced her firm -resolution not to listen, not to reply. - -Then, I felt a keen desire to obtain a word from this woman. I would -have given my blood to hear the sound of Laurence's voice; all my being -went out towards her, conjured her, begged her with clasped hands, to -speak, to utter but a single syllable. I wept at her silence; a sort of -vague uneasiness gained upon me as she became more sullen, more -impenetrable. I felt myself gliding towards madness, towards a fixed -idea; I had imperious need of a response; I made superhuman efforts, -uttered prayers and threats, to obtain the satisfaction of this need -which was devouring me. I multiplied my questions, emphasized my demands -and changed the form of my interrogations, rendering them more urgent; I -had recourse to all my gentleness, to all my violence, imploring, -ordering, speaking in a caressing and submissive tone, then allowing -myself to be carried away by anger, and afterwards making myself more -humble, more insinuating still. Laurence, without a quiver, without a -glance, seemed to ignore my presence. All my will, all my furious -desire, to make her speak broke against the pitiless deafness of this -creature who refused to listen to me. - -This woman was escaping from me. I saw an insurmountable barrier between -her and me. I held her form tightly clasped, I felt that form abandon -itself with disdain to my embrace. But I could not open that soul and -take possession of it; the heart and the mind had hidden themselves -away; I pressed only a lifeless rag, so weary, so dull, that it was as -nothing in my arms. And I loved this limp rag, I wished to keep it. I -clung with despair to the sole creature who remained to me in the world, -I exacted that she should belong to me, I had the fury of a miser when I -thought that I was about to be robbed of her and that she was quite -willing to allow herself to be stolen. I rebelled, I summoned all my -strength to defend my own. And I was pressing a corpse to my bosom, an -unknown thing which was a stranger to me and which I could not -understand. Oh! brothers, you are ignorant of this suffering, of these -bursts of love for an inanimate statue, of this cold resistance on the -part of an adored being, of this silence in answer to so many sobs, of -this voluntary death which might love, which one supplicates with all -his eloquence and which loves not. - -When my voice failed me, when I despaired of ever animating Laurence, I -laid my head upon her breast, my ear against her heart. There, leaning -on this woman, my eyes open, staring at the wick of the candle which was -burning to a coal, I spent the night in thinking. I heard the rattle in -Marie's throat, broken by fits of coughing, which came to me through the -partition, lulling my thoughts. - -I thought. I listened to the regular beating of Laurence's heart. I knew -that nothing was there but a wave of blood; I said to myself that I was -following in their rhythm the sounds of a well regulated machine, and -that the voice which reached me was only the ticking of an unconscious -clock, obeying a mere spring. And, nevertheless, I was disturbed; I -would have liked to take the machine apart, to search out and study its -most minute pieces; I thought seriously, in my delirium, of opening the -breast upon which my head reposed, of removing the heart that I might -see why it beat so gently and so regularly. - -Marie's rattle continued, and Laurence's heart beat almost in my head. -On hearing these two sounds, which were sometimes mingled together and -made but one, I thought of life. - -I know not why an insatiable longing for innocence pursues me in my -abasement. I have constantly in my brain the thought of immaculate -purity, lofty, inaccessible, and this thought awakens more biting in the -depths of each of my fits of despair. - -While I leaned my head upon Laurence's faded bosom, I said to myself -that woman was born for a single love. - -There is the truth, the only possible marriage. My soul is so exacting -that it wishes all the creature it loves, in her infancy, in her sleep, -in her entire life. It goes so far as to accuse dreams, so far as to -declare that a sweetheart is guilty who has received in a vision the -kiss of a shadowy adorer. - -All young girls, even the purest and most sincere, have been the -recipients of attentions from the phantom lovers of their dreams; those -demons have held them in their arms, have made their innocent flesh -quiver, have given them the first caresses. Hence, when they find -husbands, they are no longer innocent, they no longer possess holy -ignorance. - -As for me, I wished my bride to come to me as she had left the hands of -God; I wished her spotless, refined, not yet alive, and I would awaken -her. She would live in me, she would know me alone, she would have no -recollections save those which came to her through me. She would realize -the divine dream of an eternal marriage of the soul and body, drawing -everything from itself. But when a woman's lips have known other lips, -when she has trembled like a leaf at the kisses of others, love can be -nothing but daily anguish, hourly jealousy. Laurence does not belong to -me, she belongs to her remembrances; she twists in my arms, thinking, -perhaps, of former tendernesses; she is constantly escaping from me; she -has a whole life which has not been mine; she and I are not one flesh. -I love her and tear myself; I sob at the sight of this creature whom I -do not possess, whom I can no longer possess in her entirety. - -The candle smoked, the chamber was full of thick, yellowish air. I heard -the rattling in Marie's throat, now coming to me through the partition -in jerky sounds. I listened to Laurence's heart, but could not -understand its language. This heart spoke, without doubt, an unknown -tongue; I held my breath, I gave my intelligence altogether to it, but I -utterly failed to grasp its meaning. Perhaps it was relating to me the -past of my wretched and treacherous companion, her story of shame and -misery. It beat slowly and ironically, letting the syllables fall from -it with an effort; it made no haste to finish, it seemed to take delight -in the recital of the horrible tale. I divined at times what it might be -saying. I had ignored the past, I had refused to become acquainted with -it, I had striven to forget it; but it voluntarily evoked itself, it -presented itself to my mind such as it must have been. I knew what -infamies it was necessary for me to imagine; but, amid the ignorance in -which I had shut myself up, I, without doubt, went beyond the real and -fell into a nightmare, exaggerating the evil. At this hour, I wished to -know everything, to obtain a complete revelation of the truth in all its -horror. I listened with the utmost attention to the cynical and heavy -heart, which was narrating to me in a low voice and an unknown language -the long and doleful story, but I could not follow the thread of the -narrative, I could only imagine a few words which I thought I -distinguished amid the unintelligible confusion of sounds. - -Then, suddenly, Laurence's heart changed its language. It spoke of the -future, and I understood it. It beat distinctly, talking more rapidly, -with more violence, more irony. It said that it was going to the gutter -and that it was in haste to arrive there. Laurence would quit me on the -morrow, she would resume her life of chance; she would belong to the -crowd, she would descend the few steps which yet separated her from the -bottom of the sewer. Then, she would be a brute, she would no longer -feel anything, and she would declare herself perfectly happy and -contented. She would die some night upon the sidewalk, drunken and worn -out. The heart told me that the body would go to the dissecting-room, -and that the physicians would cut it to pieces to discover what bitter -and nauseous things it contained. At these accursed words, I saw -Laurence turned blue, dragged through the mud, covered with infamous -stains, stretched out, cold and stiff, upon the white marble slab of the -dissecting-table. The physicians were plunging sharp knives into the -bosom of her I loved so much as to be ready to lay down my life for her, -into the breast of the woman whom I held in my arms with the clutch of -desperation. - -The vision enlarged its scope; the chamber became filled with phantoms. -A world of dissipation passed before me in a long, desolate procession. -Life, with all its horrors and shames, presented itself to my eyes in a -succession of frightful pictures. All the wretchedness of humanity arose -before me, draped in silk, covered with rags, young and beautiful, old -and bony. The parade of these men and these women, going to destruction, -lasted a long while and filled me with terror. - -The heart beat, beat. It said to me now, in anger: - -"I came from the darkness of sin and shall return to it. You love me, -but I shall never love you, for I am a dead heart and utterly worthless. -You have striven vainly to make yourself infamous; you wish to descend -to the mud, but the mud cannot ascend to you. You interrogate the -silence, you endeavor to obtain light from darkness; you are trying to -resuscitate an unknown corpse, which you would do better to carry -immediately to the dissecting-table!" - -I knew nothing further. The heart ceased to beat audibly, the burning -wick of the candle was extinguished amid a flood of tallow. I remained -leaning upon Laurence's bosom, fancying myself in the depths of some -great black cavern, damp and deserted. - -I still heard the rattle in Marie's throat. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII - -PRACTICAL ADVICE - - -This morning, on awaking, I had in me a glimmer of dolorous hope. - -The window had remained open, and I was as cold as ice. - -I pressed my hands against my forehead; I said to myself that all this -filth could not exist, that I dreamed at will of infamy. I had come out -of a horrible nightmare; still shaken by the vision, I smiled as I -thought it was only an illusion and that I was about to resume my calm -life in the sunshine. I refused to entertain my recollections, I -revolted, I denied. I had the indignation of honor. - -No, it was impossible that I should suffer to this point, that life -should be so wretched, so shameful; it was impossible that there existed -such disgraces and such griefs. - -I arose softly, and went to the window to breathe the morning air with -all my strength. I saw Jacques below me; he was whistling tranquilly and -gazing out into the courtyard. Then, the idea entered my mind to go -down-stairs, to question him; he was a cold and just man who would calm -my excitement, an honest man who would answer my questions with candor, -who would tell me if he loved Laurence and what were his relations with -her. By adopting this course, I might, perhaps, be cured. I would no -longer feel that terrible warmth which was devouring my breast, I would -trust Laurence, I would decide on a wise line of conduct which should -release both her and myself from the desperate and wounding love into -which circumstances had plunged us. - -You see, brothers, that, though near the terrible dénouement, I still -was hopeful. Oh! my poor heart, you are only a big child whom each hurt -makes younger and warmer! As I passed Laurence, on my way to Jacques' -apartment, I gazed for an instant at that slumbering girl, and, after so -many tears, I again hoped to accomplish her reformation. - -I found Jacques at work. He offered me his hand loyally, with a bright, -frank smile upon his lips. I looked him straight in the face; I did not -see in his peaceful features the treason I was searching for there. If -this young man were deceiving me, he knew not that he was making my -heart bleed. - -"What!" cried he, with a hearty laugh, "are you no longer lazy? It is -good for me, serious man that I am, to get up at six o'clock in the -morning!" - -"Listen, Jacques," I answered: "I am sick, and have come here to cure -myself. I have lost consciousness of what surrounds me. I have lost -consciousness of myself. This morning, on awaking, I realized that the -sense of life was escaping from me, I felt myself lost in vertigo and -blindness. This is why I have come down-stairs to grasp your hand, and -to ask aid and advice from you." - -I watched Jacques' face narrowly to note the effect of my words. He grew -grave and lowered his eyes. He had not the attitude of a culprit, he had -almost that of a judge. - -I added, in a vibrating voice: - -"You live beside me, you know the life I lead. I had the misfortune to -meet, at the commencement of my career, a woman who has weighed me down -and crushed me. I have kept this woman with me for a long while out of -pity and justice. To-day, I love Laurence, I keep her beside me because -I am madly, recklessly, devoted to her. I have not come here to ask you -to employ your wisdom to effect a separation between her and me; I wish, -if possible, for you to give me a last ray of hope by calming my fever, -by making me see that everything in me is not shame. Do me the service -of searching my being, of spreading it out bleeding before my eyes. If -nothing good remains in me, if both my heart and my flesh are stained, I -have fully resolved to sink myself, to drown myself, in the mud. If, on -the contrary, you succeed in giving me a hope of redemption, I will make -new efforts to get back to the light." - -Jacques listened to me, shaking his head sorrowfully. I continued, after -a brief silence: - -"I do not know if you thoroughly understand me. I love Laurence with the -utmost fury, I exact that she shall follow me in the light or in the -mud. I should die of fear, if she left me alone in the depths of shame -and misery; my heart will burst when I learn that, in her abasement, she -has found other kisses than mine. She belongs to me in all her -wretchedness, in all her ugliness. Nobody else would want the poor, -abandoned and unfortunate creature. This thought makes her dearer, more -precious to me; she is unworthy of anybody, I alone accept her; if I -knew that another possessed my sad courage, my jealous rage would be all -the greater because more love, more devotion, would be needed from him -who stole Laurence from me. Therefore, do not argue with me, Jacques; I -have nothing to do with your ideas in regard to life, with your wishes -and your duties. I am too high or too low to follow you in your path. -You have a healthful mind; try only to assure me that Laurence loves me, -that I love Laurence, that I ought to love her." - -I had grown animated while speaking; I trembled, I felt madness growing -upon me. Jacques, becoming graver and graver, sadder and sadder, looked -at me and said, in a low tone: - -"Child! poor child!" - -Then he took my hands and held them in his, thinking, maintaining -silence. My flesh burned, his was cool; I felt my visage contract, and I -searched vainly in his, which remained grave and strong. - -"Claude," said he to me, at last, "you are dreaming; you are beyond -life, my friend, in the realms of nightmare and delusion. You have -fever, delirium; your heart and your body both are sick. Amid your -sufferings, you no longer see the things of this earth as they are. You -give monstrous dimensions to gravel stones, you lessen the size of the -mountains; your horizon is the horizon of vertigo, peopled by terrifying -visions which are but shadows and reflections. I swear to you that your -senses and your soul deceive themselves, that you see, that you love, -what does not exist. My poor friend, I understand your disease, I even -know the cause of it. You were born for a world of purity, of honor; you -came to us without protection, without a guiding rule, your heart open, -your mind free; you took immense pride in believing in the power of your -tenderness, in the justice, the truth of your reasoning. Elsewhere, amid -worthy surroundings, you would have increased in dignity. Among us, your -virtues have hastened your fall. You have loved when you should have -hated; you have been gentle when you should have been cruel; you have -listened to your conscience and your heart when you should have listened -only to your pleasure and your interest. And this is why you are -infamous. The story is painful; you should consider yourself well -punished for your pride, which urged you to live in defiance of the -opinions of the crowd. To-day, your wound is bleeding, increased, -irritated, by your own hands which tear it. You have maintained in your -fall the impetuosity of your character: you desired to lose yourself -utterly as soon as you felt the tip of your foot enter into evil. Now, -you wallow, with holy horror, with the fury of bitter joy, in the -ignoble bed upon which you have thrown yourself. I know you, Claude: you -have been badly beaten, you do not wish to remain half conquered. Will -you permit me, the practical man, the man without a heart, to endeavor -to cure you by cauterizing your wound with a red hot iron?" - -I made a gesture of impatience, opening my lips. - -"I know what you are going to say to me," resumed Jacques, with more -vivacity. "You are going to say to me that you do not wish to be cured, -and that my red hot iron will not even make your already too much -bruised flesh cry out. I know, besides, what you think, for I see your -anger and your disdain. You think that we are worth less than you, we -who do not love, who do not weep; you think that we have made this -world, this woman who causes you to suffer, that we are cowardly, cruel, -and that our way of being young is more shameful than your love and your -abasement. You are on the point of crying out to me, to me who live -tranquilly in the same mud as yourself, that you are dying of shame, -that I lack soul if I do not die with you. You are, perhaps, right: I -ought to sob, to twist my arms. But I do not feel the need of weeping; I -have not your woman's nerves, your violence or your delicacy of -sensation. I comprehend that you suffer through me, through the rest, -through all those who love without love, and I pity you, poor, grown up -infant, because you appear to me to suffer so much from an affliction I -know nothing about. If I cannot ascend to you, cannot expose myself to -your shame and pain arising from excess of soul and excess of justice, I -wish, at least, in order to cure you, to give you our cowardice and our -cruelty, to tear out your heart and leave your breast empty. Then, you -will walk upright in the path of youth." - -He had raised his voice; he grasped my hands strongly, almost with -anger. This must be all Jacques' passion: a soulless passion, made up of -logic and duty. Pale before him, my head half turned away, I smiled in -contempt and anguish. - -"Your Laurence," he continued, with energy, "your Laurence is a living -disgrace! She is ugly, she is prematurely old, she is dangerous. Go up -to your room and throw her into the street; she is ripe for expulsion! -For more than a year, this girl has been a crushing burden to you; it is -time that you had sent her off, that you had freed yourself, that you -had washed your hands of her. I understand the weakness of pity; I might -have sheltered Laurence for a time, if she had come to me begging for an -asylum; but, on discovering the blackness of her heart, I would have -returned to the sidewalk what belonged to the sidewalk, and I would have -burned sugar in my chamber. Go up-stairs; throw her out of the window if -she does not go quickly enough out of the door. Be cruel, be cowardly, -be unjust, commit a crime. But, for the love of God, do not shelter a -Laurence any longer. Such women are the cause of nine tenths of all the -unhappiness in this world; they are makers of desolation and should be -left to the mercy of the crowd; they deserve punishment, and it is not -just to shield them from it. Do not persist longer in giving an asylum -to this wicked wretch. You see that I am seeking some insult to -exasperate you; I would render you worthy of your age by teaching you -how to treat a Laurence, how to act like a practical man. For a year -past, what have you done, except to weep? You are dead to work, you have -lost caste, you do not look forward to the future. Laurence is the evil -angel who has killed your intelligence and your hopes. You must kill -Laurence. Hold, I have a last infamy to hurl in your face. You have not -the right to live in poverty that you may shelter this woman; if you -toiled, if you struggled, alone, you might die of hunger, but there -would be a certain grandeur about your death. The few friends whom you -had have left you; you saw them depart one by one, with coldness. Do you -know what they say? They say that they cannot explain to themselves your -manner of existence, that they cannot understand how you manage to -shelter Laurence amid your poverty; the rich, when they give alms, say -the same thing of the poor who have a dog. They say, those friends, that -there is a method in what you do, and that you eat the bread which -Laurence earns." - -I escaped to my feet with a sudden movement, my arms closely locked -against my breast. The insult had hit me full in the face; I felt a cold -sweat cover my visage; I was stiff and icy; I no longer knew whether I -was suffering or not. I had not believed that I had already fallen to -this degree of abasement in the opinion of the crowd; I had desired a -voluntary shame, but I had not desired insult. I drew back, step by -step, towards the door, staring at Jacques, who also had arisen, and who -was contemplating me with superb violence. When I stood upon the -threshold, he said to me: - -"Listen: you are going away without grasping my hand; I see that you -will never forgive me for the wound I have just given you. While I am -cowardly and cruel, I have something to propose to you. As I have -tortured you, as I have excited your disgust, I must cure you. Send -Laurence to me. I feel sufficiently courageous to separate her from you; -to-morrow, your tenderness will be dead, you will then tell this woman -she can no longer remain under the same roof with you. If you must have -another love affair to hasten the work of consolation, go up-stairs, -kneel beside Marie's bed and love her. She will not long be a burden to -you." - -He spoke with a cold anger, a lofty and disdainful conviction; he seemed -to tread all love under foot, to walk over those women whom he -entertained through capriciousness and custom; he looked straight before -him, as if he saw his mature age congratulating him upon the logical -shames of his youth. - -So Jacques, the practical man, agreed with Pâquerette; both of them -recommended to me an ignoble exchange, a remedy more distressing, more -bitter, than the disease. I closed the door violently, and went -up-stairs again, almost calm, stupid with grief. - -There is, in the midst of despair, an instant when the intelligence -escapes, when the events which succeed each other mingle together in -dire confusion and no longer have any meaning. When I found myself once -more before Laurence, who was still asleep, I forgot that I had just -seen Jacques, I forgot both his advice and his insults; the heart and -the mind of this man seemed to me gloomy abysses into which I could not -descend. I was alone, face to face with my love, as yesterday, as ever; -I had now but a single thought: to awaken Laurence, to clasp her in my -arms, to compel her to accept life and kisses. - -I awoke her, I took her with fury in my arms, I clasped her with such -force as to make her cry out. I had a dumb rage, an implacable will. I -was weary of being a stranger to Laurence, of being ignorant of what was -passing through her brain; I desired to know the secrets of her soul. I -said to myself that then I should no longer be tormented by suspicions, -that I would force her to love me by warming her heart with my caresses. - -Laurence had not spoken to me for two whole days. Pain unlocked her -lips. She struggled and cried out to me, in a sullen tone: - -"Let go of me, Claude, you hurt me! What a strange idea to wake people -by choking them!" - -I knelt upon the floor, at the side of the bed, and stretched out my -hands towards my tormentor. - -"Laurence," I murmured, in a gentle voice, "speak to me, love me. Why -are you so cruel? What have I done that your lips and your heart -maintain silence. Be frank; make me suffer all my sufferings in an hour, -or cast yourself into my arms and let us live happily. Tell me all, give -full scope to your thoughts and your affections. If you do not love me, -strike a deadly blow, crush me and depart. If you love me, remain, -remain, but remain upon my heart, close, close, and speak to me, speak -to me constantly, for I am filled with fear when I see you mute and sad -for entire days, staring at me with your dead eyes. I feel madness -coming to me in this desert amid which you are dragging me; I grow dizzy -as I lean over you, so full of deep obscurity, of silent horror. No, I -cannot live another day in ignorance of your love or your indifference; -I wish you to explain yourself at once, I wish you, at last, to make -yourself known. My mind is weary of searching; it is filled with sad -solutions which it has formed of the problem of your being. If you do -not desire my heart and my head to burst, name yourself, tell me what -you are, assure me that you are not dead, that you still have blood -sufficient to love or to hate me. I am reckless. Listen: we will set out -to-morrow for Provence. Do you remember the tall trees of Fontenay? In -Provence, beneath the glowing sun, the trees are prouder, stronger. We -will live a life of love on that ardent soil, which will restore you -your youth and give you a dark, passionate beauty. You shall see. I -know, in a ravine sown with fine grass, a small, retired house, all -green on one side with ivy and honeysuckles; there is a hedge, as tall -as a child, which hides the ten leagues of the valley, and one sees only -the blue curtains of the sky and the green carpet of the path. It is in -this ravine, this nest, that we will love each other; it shall be our -universe, and we will forget there the life we have led in the gloomy -depths of this miserable chamber. The past shall be obliterated; the -present alone, with its broad sunlight, its fruitful nature, its strong -and gentle loves, shall exist for our hearts. Oh! Laurence, in pity -speak to me, love me, tell me that you wish to follow me!" - -She remained sitting up in bed, tranquilly wiping her eyes heavy with -sleep, straightening out her hair, stretching her limbs. She yawned. My -words seemed to produce upon her only the effect of disagreeable music. -I had uttered the last sentences with so many tears, with such -desperation, that she ceased to yawn and stared at me with an air at -once vexed and friendly. She heaped the covers upon her bare feet; then, -she crossed her hands and said: - -"My poor Claude, surely you are ill. You behave like a child, you demand -things of me which are anything but droll. I wish you only knew how much -you fatigue me with your continual embraces, with your strange -questions! You nearly strangled me the other day, now you weep, you -kneel before me, as if I were the Holy Virgin! I comprehend nothing of -all this. I never knew a man in the slightest degree resembling you. You -are always stifling me, asking me if I love you. Of course, I love you, -but you would do better, instead of making yourself sick here, to look -for some work which would enable us to eat a little oftener. Such, at -least, is my opinion." - -She stretched herself out lazily, and turned her back to me, in order -not to have in her eyes the light from the window which prevented her -from going to sleep again. I remained on my knees, my forehead against -the mattress, broken by the new burst of excitement which had just -carried me away; it seemed to me that I had lifted myself too high and -that, a hard and cold hand having pushed me, I had fallen headlong from -the immensity of the heavens. Then, I remembered Jacques; but the -remembrance appeared to me distant and vague: I would have sworn that -years had elapsed since I had heard the terrible words of the practical -man. My heart silently admitted to itself that this man was, perhaps, -right in his selfishness: I felt a sudden temptation to take Laurence in -my arms and carry her to the nearest street corner, there to throw her -down and leave her. - -I could not remain thus between Jacques and Laurence, between my love -and my sufferings. I needed pacification, resolution; I needed to -complain and to question, to hear a voice answer me and give me -certainty. - -I ascended to Pâquerette's room. I had never before entered the -apartment of this woman. The chamber is on the eighth floor, immediately -under the roof; it is a small mansarde and receives the light through a -slanting window, the sash of which is lifted by means of an iron button. -The wall paper hangs in blackish strips; the pieces of furniture--a -bureau, a table and a bed of spun-yarn--lean one against another, in -order not to fall. In a corner, there is a violet wood étagère, with -threads of gold along the veneering, loaded with glassware and -porcelain. The den is dirty, encumbered with damaged kitchen utensils -full of greasy water; it exhales a strong odor of scraps of food and -musk, mingled with a thousand other nameless and disgusting smells. - -Pâquerette was gravely taking her ease in a red arm-chair, the covering -of which, worn thin in spots, showed the wool with which the back and -arms were stuffed. She was reading a little yellow book, full of stains, -which she closed and placed upon the bureau when I made my appearance. - -I took her hands, I wept. I seated myself on a stool, at her feet. In my -despair, I was tempted to call her mother. I told her how I had passed -the morning; I repeated to her the words of Jacques, those of Laurence; -I emptied my heart, avowed my love and my jealousy, asked for advice. -With clasped hands, sobbing, supplicating, I addressed myself to -Pâquerette as to a good soul who knew life, who could save me from the -mud into which I had blindly strayed. - -She smiled as she listened to me, tapping me upon the cheeks with her -withered and yellow fingers. - -"Come, come," said she, when emotion had choked my voice in my throat, -"come, you have shed enough tears! I knew that one day or another you -would climb up here to ask aid and succor of me. I expected you. You -took all this much too seriously; you should have reached sobs -gradually. Do you wish me to speak frankly to you?" - -"Yes, yes," I cried; "frankly, brutally." - -"Well, you fill Laurence with fear! In the past, I would have shown you -the door at the second kiss: you embrace too strongly, my son. Laurence -remains with you, because she cannot go elsewhere. If you wish to get -rid of her, give her a new dress!" - -Pâquerette stopped With satisfaction at this phrase. She coughed, then -pushed from her forehead a curl of gray hair which had just slipped over -it. - -"You ask advice from me, my son," added she. "I will give you through -friendship the advice which Jacques gave you through interest. He will -willingly deliver you from Laurence." - -She laughed wickedly, and my pain became more intense. - -"Listen," said I, with violence: "I came here to be calmed. Do not -overturn my reason. Jacques cannot love Laurence after the words he -spoke to me this morning, it is impossible." - -"Ah! my son," answered the old woman, "you are very innocent, very -young. I know not what you mean by love, and I know not if Jacques loves -Laurence. What I do know is that they embrace each other in -out-of-the-way corners. In the past, how many kisses I gave without -knowing why, how many kisses were given to me which came from I know not -where! You are a strange fellow, who do nothing like the rest. You -should not have thought of having a sweetheart. If you are wise, this is -what you will do: you will accept things as they are, and quietly -Laurence will depart. She is no longer young; she may become a charge to -you. Think of that. If you retain her, you will repent of it later. You -had better let her go, since she herself wishes to take her departure." - -I listened with stupor. - -"But I love Laurence!" I cried. - -"You love Laurence, my son; well, you will love her no longer! That is -the whole of it. People unite and people quit each other. Such is life. -But, great heavens! whence come you? How could such a man as you -conceive the idea of loving anybody? In my time, people loved -differently; it was then easier to turn the back than to embrace. You -can readily understand that it is henceforward impossible for you to -live with Laurence. Separate from her politely. I do not advise you to -accept Marie as your sweetheart; that poor girl displeases you, and I -think you had better jog on through life alone!" - -I no longer heard Pâquerette's voice. The thought that Jacques might -have deceived me in the morning had not before occurred to me; now, I -plunged into it, not succeeding in believing it, but finding a sort of -consolation in saying to myself that he had, perhaps, lied to me. This -was a new shadow upon my mind, a new torment added to the torments which -were already racking me. I was on the point of losing my senses. - -Pâquerette continued, speaking through her nose: - -"I wish to form you, Claude, to communicate to you my experience. You do -not know how to love. One must be kind to women; one must not beat them, -one must give them sweet things. Above all, no jealousy; if you are -deceived, allow yourself to be deceived; you will be better loved -afterwards. When I think of my adorers, I recall a little flaxen haired -fellow who boasted that he had had for sweethearts all the girls of the -public balls. Do you see that étagère, the last souvenir which remains -to me? It came from him. One evening, he approached me and said to me, -with a laugh: 'You are the only one whom I have not adored. Will you -accept me after all the rest?' I accepted his homage, he kissed me upon -both cheeks, and we supped together. That is the way to love." - -I recovered from my stupor; I stared about the place in which I found -myself. Then only I saw the filth of the den, then only I perceived the -odor of musk and scraps of food. All my excitement had subsided; I -realized the shame of my presence at the feet of this old wretch. The -words which she had spoken to me, and which my memory had retained, grew -clear and frightful in my mind, which before had turned them over -without understanding them. - -I had not the strength to go down-stairs to my chamber. I seated myself -upon a step and wept away all the blood of my heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV - -SAD REFLECTIONS - - -I am a coward; I suffer and I dare not cauterize the wound. I feel that -Pâquerette and Jacques are right, that I cannot live amid the frightful -torment which is rending me. I must, if I do not wish to die of it, tear -love from my bosom. But I am like the dying who are frightened by the -unknown and the annihilation of the body. I know what is the anguish of -my heart, full as it is of Laurence; I know not what would be its pain -were this woman to leave it empty. I prefer the sobs of my agony to the -death of my love; I recoil before the mysterious horrors of a soul -widowed by affection. - -It is with despair that I feel Laurence escaping from me. I press her in -my arms like a horse hair shirt which brings the blood, which gives me a -bitter delight. She tears me, and yet I love her. I love her for all the -darts she drives into my flesh; I experience the painful ecstasy of -those monks who die beneath the rods with which they strike themselves. -I love and I sob. I do not wish to refuse to sob, if I ought to refuse -to love. - -And yet I realize that this sharp and biting nightmare must come to an -end. The crisis is approaching. I do not know which of us is going to -die. It seems as if anguish kept me awake, warned me of a coming -misfortune. Heaven will take pity on me: it will cure my mind and leave -me my heart; it will choose me for death rather than choose my -tenderness. - -This morning, I met a young man and a young woman, who were walking in -the bright sunshine. With arms closely locked, they advanced slowly, -forgetting the crowd. The young woman leaned her head upon the young -man's shoulder; she gazed at him, moved and smiling, while he, in a -glance, returned her emotion, her smile. This youthful couple absolutely -sparkled with devotion and happiness, with pure love and genuine -delight. - -True youthful love then exists. While I live miserably in the deep -gloom, torn and devoured by a horrible nightmare, a fearful incubus, -there are, amid the sunbeams of May, true lovers who live deliciously. I -did not know that people could love each other thus, I believed that -kisses must of necessity be biting and poignant. - -But, I remember now. Young lovers stroll along, two by two, in the -moonlight, amid the first streaks of dawn. They are clad in light -garments. They embrace each other at every step in a tender, dreamy -fashion; they live amid the grass, among the crowd, and they are always -alone. Heaven smiles upon them, the earth is discreet, the universe is -their accomplice. Young lovers exchange their hearts, they live in each -other's lives. - -As for me, I am shut up here. I cannot have everything. I have the -tears, the despair, of solitary love; I have the silence, the dead eyes, -of Laurence. What need have I of spring and youthful love? I have my -grief, if others have their joy. - -Oh! my God, have pity! Do not deprive me of my suffering. Prevent this -woman from curing me by killing my love. Let her remain where she is, at -my side; let her remain there, cold and indifferent, to prolong my -torment. I no longer know why I love her; I love her, setting aside all -justice and all truth; I love her for the delight of loving her, and I -do not wish to be disturbed amid the reckless madness of my devotion. My -entire being is crushed by the idea that she may quit me; I am afraid of -the dire desolation into which her absence would surely plunge me. In -losing her, I would lose my family, all my affection, everything which -yet binds me to this earth. My God, do not permit her to abandon me! - - - - -CHAPTER XXV - -THE FAIR - - -Last evening, in order to obtain partial relief from my sufferings, I -strolled upon a fair ground. The faubourg was all gayety, and the people -in their Sunday clothes were noisily passing through the streets. - -The lamps had just been lighted. The avenue, at regular distances, was -ornamented with yellow and blue posts, which were garnished with small, -colored pots, and in these pots were burning smoky wicks, the flame and -smoke being whirled about by the wind. In the trees Venetian lanterns -swung. Canvas booths bordered the sidewalks, allowing the fringe of -their red curtains to trail in the gutters. The gilded faïences, the -freshly painted bonbons and the tinsel everywhere displayed shone in the -raw light of the lamps. - -There was in the atmosphere an odor of dust, of spiced cake and of -greasy waffles; the powdered girls who led reckless lives laughed and -wept beneath a hailstorm of kisses, blows and kicks. A hot and stifling -mist hung over and weighed down upon this scene of riotous joy. - -Above this mist, above these noises, spread out a cloudless sky, with -pure and melancholy depths. An angel had lighted up the azure fields of -the heavens for some divine fête, some majestically calm fête of the -infinite. - -Lost amid the crowd, I felt the solitude of my heart. I walked on, -following with my glances the giddy young girls who smiled upon me as -they went by, and I said to myself that I should never again see their -smiles. This thought of so many loving lips, dimly seen for an instant -and then lost forever, gave my sad soul, already tortured by my -uncertainty in regard to Laurence, an additional pang of anguish. - -In this wretched frame of mind, I reached a point where a street crossed -the avenue. To the left, supported by an elm tree, stood an isolated -booth. In front of it, a few badly joined planks formed a species of -staging, and two lanterns illuminated the door, which was simply a bit -of canvas raised like a curtain. As I came to a stop, a man wearing a -magician's costume, a flowing black robe and a pointed hat sown with -stars, was haranguing the crowd from the plank platform. - -"Enter," cried he, "enter my fine Messieurs, enter my beautiful -Demoiselles! I have come in hot haste from the furthest extremity of -India to make young hearts rejoice. It was there that I conquered, at -the peril of my life, the Mirror of Love, which was watched over by a -horrible dragon. My fine Messieurs, my beautiful Demoiselles, I have -brought you the realization of your dreams. Enter, enter, and see the -person who loves you! For two sous you can behold the person who loves -you!" - -An old woman, clad like a bayadère, lifted the canvas door. She looked -around upon the crowd with a stupid glance; then, she cried out, in a -thick voice: - -"For two sous, for two sous, you can behold the person who loves you! -Enter and see the person who loves you!" - -The magician beat a furious fantaisie upon a huge drum. The bayadère -bent over a bell and accompanied him. - -The people hesitated. A learned ass playing cards excited lively -interest; a Hercules lifting weights of a hundred livres each was a -spectacle of which no one would ever weary; neither is it to be denied -that a half-clad giant was made to agreeably amuse those of all ages. -But to see the person who loves you appeared to be the thing of which -the crowd thought the least, and which they imagined did not promise -them the slightest emotion. - -As for me, I had eagerly listened to the summons of the man with the -flowing robe. His promises responded to the desire of my heart; I saw a -Providence in the chance which had directed my steps hither. The -miserable mountebank had acquired a singular importance in my eyes, from -the astonishment which I felt at hearing him read my most secret -thoughts. It seemed to me that I saw him fix flaming glances upon me, -beating the huge drum with a diabolical fury, crying out to me to enter -in a voice which rose above the clash of the bell. - -I had placed my foot upon the first plank step when I felt myself -stopped. Turning around, I saw in front of the platform a man who had -grasped me by the coat. This man was tall and thin; he had large hands -covered by thread gloves larger still, and wore a hat which had grown -rusty, a black coat whitened at the elbows, and deplorable cashmere -pantaloons, yellow with grease and mud. He bowed almost to the ground, -in a long and exquisite reverence; then, in a soft, sweet voice, he -addressed to me this discourse: - -"I am very sorry, Monsieur, that a well-bred young man like you should -set the crowd such a bad example. It is a great shame to encourage in -his impudence that wretch there, who is speculating upon our evil -instincts, for I find profoundly immoral those words screamed out in the -open air which summon the girls and the lads to mental and visual -dissipation. Ah! Monsieur, the people are weak. We, the men whom -instruction has made strong, have, believe me, grave and imperious -duties to perform. Let us not yield to culpable curiosity, let us be -worthy in all things. The morality of society depends upon us, -Monsieur." - -I listened to his speech. He had not released my coat and could not -decide to finish his reverence. With his hat in his hand, he spoke with -such polite calmness that I could not think of getting angry with him. I -contented myself, when he paused, with staring him in the face without -replying. He saw a question in this silence. - -"Monsieur," resumed he, with a new bow, "I am the friend of the people -and my mission is the well-being of humanity." - -He uttered these words with a modest pride, suddenly lifting himself to -his full height. I turned my back upon him and mounted the platform. -Before entering, as I lifted up the canvas curtain, I looked at him -again. He had delicately taken in his right hand the fingers of his -left, striving to efface the folds of his gloves which seemed upon the -point of slipping off. - -Then, folding his arms, the friend of the people tenderly contemplated -the bayadère. - -I let the curtain fall and found myself within the temple. It was a sort -of long and narrow chamber, without a single chair, with walls of -canvas, lighted by a single lamp. A few persons--curious girls and lads -making a great noise--were already assembled there. Setting aside the -noise, the utmost propriety was observed: a rope, stretched across the -middle of the apartment, separated the men from the women. - -The Mirror of Love, to tell the truth, consisted simply of two -looking-glasses without amalgam, one on each side of the rope, small -round glasses through which could be seen the interior of the booth. The -promised miracle was accomplished with admirable simplicity: it sufficed -to apply the right eye to one of the glasses, and beyond, without either -thunder or sulphur, appeared the loving person. Who could refuse to -believe in a vision so natural! - -I did not feel the strength to try the power of the Mirror of Love -immediately after entering. I had a vague fear that I would see Marie. -As I passed into the booth, the bayadère threw a glance at me which -froze my heart. What awaited me behind that glass? Should I see -Laurence, who on the instant would change to some horrible monster, with -sunken eyes and violet lips, a terrible vampire thirsting for youthful -blood, one of those frightful creatures which I see at night in my evil -dreams? - -I was afraid, brothers; I retired into a corner. To recover courage, I -looked at those who, bolder than myself, consulted destiny without so -much hesitation. I experienced a singular pleasure at the sight of those -different faces, the right eye wide open and the left closed with two -fingers, having each its smile according as the vision pleased more or -less. The glass was placed a little low; it was necessary to bend -slightly, in order to look through it. I could not imagine anything more -grotesque than the men coming up in single file to see the mates of -their souls through a circular glass a few centimètres in -circumference. - -First, two soldiers advanced: a sergeant, browned by the sun of Africa, -and a young conscript, having still the odor of the fields about him, -his arms embarrassed by a cloak three times too large for him. The -sergeant gave a skeptical laugh. The conscript remained bent for a long -while, singularly flattered by having a sweetheart. - -Then came a fat man in a white vest, with a red and bloated face, who -gazed tranquilly without a grimace either of joy or displeasure, as if -he thought it altogether natural that he should be loved by some one. - -He was followed by three schoolboys, youths from fifteen to sixteen -years old, with brazen mien, pushing each other to make people think -that they had the honor to be intoxicated. All three of them swore that -they saw their aunts in the Mirror of Love. - -Thus, brothers, the curious followed each other before the mirror, and I -cannot now recall the different expressions of countenance which struck -me then. Oh! oh! vision of the well-beloved! what rude truths you spoke -to those wide open eyes! They were the true Mirrors of Love, mirrors in -which woman's grace was reflected in a dubious light, where luxury -spread out into folly. - -The girls, on the other side of the rope, amused themselves in a most -genuine fashion. I read only intense curiosity upon their faces, I did -not see the indication of the least wicked thought. They came, turn by -turn, to throw an astonished glance upon the mirror and retired, some a -trifle thoughtful, others laughing like so many fools. - -To speak the truth, I know not what business I had there. If I were a -woman, provided I was pretty, I would never entertain the foolish idea -of putting myself out to go see the man who loved me. The days when my -heart should weep at being alone, if those days were days of spring and -golden sunlight, I would go into a flowery path that each passer-by -might gaze at and adore me. In the evening, I would return rich with -love. - -The curious girls before me were not all equally pretty. The handsome -ones derided the science of the magician; for a long time past they had -had no need of him. The ugly ones, on the contrary, had never found -themselves at such a fête as this. There came one of these, with thin -hair and large mouth, who could not tear herself away from the magic -mirror; she kept upon her lips the joyous and heart-rending smile of a -poor wretch satisfying her hunger after a long fast. - -I asked myself what fine ideas had been awakened in these foolish heads. -This was not an easy problem to solve. All of them had, without doubt, -seen in their dreams princes cast themselves at their feet; all of them -desired to become better acquainted with the lovers whom they remembered -so confusedly on awaking. There were, certainly, many deceptions; -princes are becoming rare, and the eyes of our souls, which open at -night upon a better world, are eyes much more accommodating than those -we employ during the day. There were also great delights: the dream was -realized; the lover had the handsome moustache and the black hair seen -in the vision. - -Thus each one, in a few seconds, lived a life of love, innocent -romances, swift as hope, which one guessed from the blushes on the -cheeks and the quivers of the corsages. - -After all, these girls were, perhaps, fools, and I was a fool myself to -have seen so many things where there was, doubtless, nothing whatever -visible. Nevertheless, I completely reassured myself by studying them. -I noticed that both men and women seemed in general thoroughly satisfied -with the apparition. The magician, certainly, had never been malicious -enough to give the least displeasure to these good folks who had paid -him two sous. - -I approached, brothers; I applied, without too much emotion, my right -eye to the Mirror of Love. I perceived, between two huge red curtains, a -woman leaning against the back of an arm-chair. She was brilliantly -illuminated by lamps which I could not see, and stood out in relief -against a piece of painted canvas, stretched across the end of the -booth; this canvas, cut in places, must formerly have represented a fine -grove of blue trees! - -Brothers, I saw neither Marie nor Laurence. She who loved me, according -to the magician's glass, wore, like a well-bred vision, a long white -robe slightly fastened at the waist, flowing upon the floor like a -cloud. She had across her forehead a wide veil, also white, held in -place by a crown of hawthorn flowers. Thus clad, the dear angel was all -whiteness, all innocence. - -She leaned coquettishly against the back of the arm-chair, turning -towards me large, caressing blue eyes. She seemed to me superb beneath -the veil: she had flaxen tresses which were lost amid the muslin, a -frank and pure forehead, delicate lips, dimples which were nests for -kisses. At the first glance, brothers, I took her for a saint; at the -second, I saw she had the air of a good girl and was not in the least -conceited. - -She lifted three fingers to her lips, and sent me a kiss, with a -courtesy which did not in the least suggest the realm of shadows. -Observing that she was not disposed to fly away, I fixed her features in -my memory and retired from the mirror. - -As I was quitting the booth, I saw my acquaintance, the friend of the -people, enter. This grave moralist, who seemed to shun me, hastened to -set the bad example of culpable curiosity. His long spine, bent in a -semi-circle, shook with emotion; then, being unable to get nearer, he -kissed the magic glass. - -I descended the three plank steps of the platform; I found myself again -in the crowd, decided to seek the girl who loved me now that I knew her -smile. - -The lamps smoked, the tumult was increasing, the people pushed along -with such reckless haste that they nearly overturned the booths. The -fête was at that hour of ideal joy in which, in order to be happy, one -risks being suffocated. - -On straightening myself up, I had before me a horizon of linen caps and -silk hats. I advanced, pushing the men, cautiously getting around the -great skirts of the women. Perhaps the girl who loved me was wrapped in -that pink cloak; perhaps her head was beneath that tulle hood ornamented -with mauve ribbons; perhaps she wore that delicious straw hat with an -ostrich feather in it. Alas! the owner of the cloak was sixty; the hood, -which concealed an abominably ugly face, leaned lovingly upon the -shoulder of a sapper; she who wore the hat was laughing heartily, -opening widely the most beautiful eyes in the world--but I did not -recognize those beautiful eyes. - -Brothers, above crowds hover I know not what anguish and what sorrow, as -if the multitude had sent up a breath of terror and pity. Never do I -find myself amid a great assemblage of people without experiencing a -vague uneasiness. It seems to me that some frightful misfortune menaces -these assembled men, that a single flash of lightning will suffice, amid -the excitement of their gestures and voices, to strike them with -motionlessness, with eternal silence. - -Little by little, I decreased my pace, looking at this joy which wounded -me. At the foot of a tree, in the full yellow light of the lamps, an old -beggar was standing, his body stiffened, horribly twisted by paralysis. -He lifted towards the passers-by his pale face, winking his eyes in a -lamentable fashion the better to excite pity. He gave to his limbs -sudden quivers of fever which shook him like a withered branch. The -young girls, fresh and blushing, passed laughingly before this hideous -spectacle. - -Further away, at the door of an inn, two workmen were fighting. In the -struggle, the glasses had been overturned, and to see the wine flowing -over the pavement one might have thought it blood from great wounds. - -The laughter seemed to me to be changed into sobs, the lights became a -vast conflagration, the crowd whirled as if stricken with terror. I -walked on, with a feeling of horrible sadness at my heart, staring at -the faces of the young girls but never finding the person who loved me. - -I saw a man standing before one of the posts which bore the lamps, -considering it with a profoundly absorbed air. From his disturbed looks, -I thought he was seeking the solution of some grave problem. This man -was the friend of the people. - -Having turned his head, he noticed me. - -"Monsieur," said he to me, "the oil employed in fêtes like this costs -twenty sous a litre. In a litre is enough to fill twenty lamps like -those which you see there: hence each lamp consumes a sou's worth of -oil. Now, this post has sixteen rows of eight lamps each: a hundred and -twenty-eight lamps in all. Besides--follow my calculations closely--I -have counted sixty similar posts in the avenue, which makes seven -thousand six hundred and eighty lamps and, consequently, seven thousand -six hundred and eighty sous, or, in other words, three hundred and -eighty-four francs." - -While speaking thus, the friend of the people gesticulated, emphasizing -the figures, bending down his tall body as if to bring himself within -the reach of my feeble understanding. When he paused, he threw himself -back triumphantly; then, he folded his arms, looking me in the face with -a penetrating air. - -"Three hundred and eighty-four francs' worth of oil," cried he, putting -a pause between each syllable, "and the poor people are without bread, -Monsieur! I ask of you, and I ask it of you with tears in my eyes, if it -would not be more honorable for humanity to distribute these three -hundred and eighty-four francs among the three thousand indigent people -contained in this faubourg? Such a charitable measure would give to each -one of them about two sous and a half's worth of bread. This thought is -well calculated to make tender souls reflect, Monsieur." - -Seeing that I stared at him curiously, he continued, in a drawling -voice, the while securing his gloves on his hands: - -"The poor man should not laugh, Monsieur. He is altogether dishonest if -he forgets his poverty for an hour. Who then will weep over the -misfortunes of the people, if the government often gives such -saturnalias as this?" - -He wiped away a tear and left me. I saw him enter the shop of a wine -merchant, where he drowned his emotion in five or six glasses of claret, -taking one after the other over the counter. - -The last light of the fair had just been extinguished; the crowd had -dispersed. In the vacillating brightness of the street lamps, I now saw -wandering beneath the trees only a few dark forms, couples of belated -lovers, drunkards and sergents de ville airing their melancholy. The -booths stretched away, gray and silent, on both borders of the avenue, -like the tents of a deserted encampment. - -Brothers, the morning breeze, damp with dew, imparted a quiver to the -leaves of the elm trees. The biting emanations of the evening had given -place to a delicious coolness. The softened silence, the transparent -gloom of the infinite, fell slowly from the depths of the sky, and the -fête of the stars followed the fête of the lamps. Honest people, at -last, could amuse themselves a little. - -I felt myself thoroughly rejuvenated, brothers, the hour of solitude -having arrived. I walked with a firm step, ascending and descending the -neighboring streets; then, I saw a gray shadow glide along the houses. -This shadow came rapidly towards me, without seeming to see me; from the -lightness of the step and the rhythmical rustle of the garments, I -recognized a woman. She was about to run against me, when she -instinctively raised her eyes. Her visage was revealed to me by the -glimmer of a neighboring lantern, and I recognized it immediately as -belonging to the girl who loved me: she was not the immortal in the -white muslin cloud as I had seen her in the booth, but a poor daughter -of this earth clad in faded calico. In her poverty, she seemed to me -more charming than before, though pale and fatigued. I could not doubt -the evidence of my senses: I saw before me the large eyes, the caressing -lips of the vision, and, besides, I distinguished, on inspecting her -thus closely, that sweetness of the features imparted by suffering. - -As she stopped for a second, brothers, I seized her hand and kissed it, -forgetting Laurence. She raised her head and smiled vaguely upon me, -without seeking to withdraw her fingers. Seeing me remain silent, -emotion having choked the words in my throat, she shrugged her shoulders -and resumed her rapid walk. - -I ran after her, caught her by the arm, and walked beside her. She -laughed almost silently; then, she shivered and said, in a low voice: - -"I am cold: let us hasten along." - -Poor child, she was cold! Beneath her thin black shawl, her shoulders -trembled in the cool morning breeze. I said to her, gently: - -"Do you know me?" - -Again she raised her eyes, and, without hesitating, replied: "No." - -I know not what rapid thought shot through my mind. In my turn, I -shivered. - -"Where are you going?" I asked. - -She shrugged her shoulders, and said to me, in a childish voice, with a -little, careless pout: - -"I am going home." - -We walked along down the avenue. - -I saw upon a bench two soldiers, one of whom was discoursing gravely, -while the other listened with respect. These soldiers were the sergeant -and the conscript. The sergeant, who seemed to me greatly moved, made me -a mocking salute, murmuring: - -"The rich lend, sometimes, Monsieur." - -The conscript, a tender and innocent soul, said to me, in a tone full of -grief: - -"I had only her, Monsieur: you are stealing from me the girl who loves -me!" - -I crossed the thoroughfare, and took another street. - -Three youths came towards us, holding each other by the arm and singing -very loudly. I recognized the schoolboys. The little wretches had no -further need to feign intoxication. They stopped, almost bursting with -laughter; then, they followed me a few steps, crying after me, each one -in an uncertain voice: - -"Ho! Monsieur, Madame is deceiving you: Madame is the person who loves -me!" - -I felt a cold sweat moisten my temples. I hastened my steps in my -eagerness to flee, thinking no more of the woman I was dragging along on -my arm. At the end of the avenue, as I was about at last to quit this -accursed spot, on stepping down from the sidewalk, I ran against a man -who was sitting at his ease upon the curbstone. He was leaning his head -against a lamp-post, his face turned towards the sky, and was executing -with the aid of his fingers a very complicated calculation. - -He turned his eyes, and, without moving his head from his pillow, -stammered out: - -"Ah! it is you, Monsieur! You must help me to count the stars. I have -already found several millions of them, but I am afraid I have forgotten -one somewhere. The welfare of humanity, Monsieur, depends upon -statistics alone!" - -A hiccough interrupted him. He resumed, with tears in his eyes: - -"Do you know what a star costs? Surely, the great God has gone to vast -expense on high, and the people lack bread, Monsieur! Of what good are -those lamps up there? Can they be eaten? What is the practical -application of them, I beg of you? We have no need whatever of this -eternal fête!" - -He had succeeded in turning his body around; he gazed about him with -perplexed looks, tossing his head with an indignant air. It was then -that he noticed my companion. He gave a start, and, with purple visage, -greedily stretched out his arms. - -"Ah! ah!" he stuttered, "it is the person who loves me!" - -The girl and I walked on a short distance. - -"Listen," said she: "I am poor; I do what I can to get something to eat. -Last winter, I spent fifteen hours a day bent over my work, an honest -trade, and yet I was sometimes without bread. In the spring, I threw my -needle out of the window. I had found an occupation less fatiguing and -more lucrative. - -"I dress myself every evening in white muslin. Alone in a sort of nook, -leaning against the back of an arm-chair, I have nothing to do but smile -from six o'clock until midnight. From time to time, I make a courtesy, I -send a kiss into space. For this I am paid three francs a sitting. - -"Opposite me, behind a little glass enclosed in the partition, I -incessantly see an eye looking at me. Sometimes it is black, sometimes -blue. Without this eye, I should be perfectly happy; it spoils the -business for me. At times, from always finding it alone and steadily -fixed there, I am filled with wild terror, I am tempted to cry out and -flee! - -"But one must work for one's living. I smile, I courtesy, I send my -kiss. At midnight, I wash off my rouge and resume my calico dress. Bah! -how many women, without being forced to do so, air their graces before a -mirror!" - -By this time, we had reached the wretched abode in which this girl -dwelt. I left her at the door, and returned to my mansarde and my -misery. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI - -AT MARIE'S BEDSIDE - - -I take a sad pleasure in being in Marie's chamber. In the morning, I go -there and sit upon the edge of the dying girl's bed; I live there as -much as possible, departing with regret. Everywhere else, I belong to -Laurence, everywhere else, I am feverish, excited and tormented. I -hasten to reach this spot of pacification, I enter it with the feeling -of confidence and comfort experienced by an invalid who is going to -breathe a milder atmosphere, by which he expects to be cured. - -I love death. The chamber is lukewarm, damp; the light there is gray and -softened, made up of shadow and white brightness; everything there -floats in a final languor, in a soft and dreamy half transparency. One -does not know how sweet to a bleeding heart is the silence which reigns -in a chamber where a young girl is dying. This silence is a strange, -peculiar silence, full of exquisite mildness, full of restrained tears. -The sounds--the clink of a glass, the crackling of a piece of -furniture--are subdued, drag along like half stifled complaints; the -cries from without enter in murmurs of pity, of compassionate -encouragement. Everything is held in check, noise as well as light; -everything is filled with grief and hope. And, in the shadow, amid the -silence, one hears a vague despair which comes from one knows not where, -and which accompanies the broken breath of the dying girl. - -I gaze at Marie. I feel myself penetrated, little by little, by that -invisible breath of consoling pity which fills the chamber. My eyes rest -from their tears in that pale brightness; my ears, amid the quivering -silence, forget for an hour the sound of my sobs. All the gentleness, -all the delicate attentions, all the faintly uttered and caressing -words, intended for Marie, seem as if addressed to me; they subdue the -sound of voices and footsteps; they question, they reply, -affectionately; they avoid sharp and painful sensations; and, as for me, -I believe, at times, that all these considerate precautions are taken -that my poor being, full of suffering, may not burst asunder. I imagine -that I am dying, that they are taking care of me; I seize my share of -the care and consolation; I steal from Marie half of her agony and of -the pity it causes; I go there, beside a dying girl, to profit by the -regrets and tenderness which men accord to the last hours of a soul. I -am curing my love through death. - -I feel that it is the need of being pitied, of being caressed, which -pushes me into this chamber. I find here the atmosphere, the pity, -necessary for me. Life is too sharp for my painful flesh and my wounded -heart; the bright sunlight irritates me; I am at ease only in the -restorative seclusion of the tomb. If, some day, I emerge from my -despair, I ought to thank God for having permitted me to live thus, -seated at the foot of a bed of death, for having allowed me to share the -pacification of a dying creature. I will live, because a child expired -at my side. - -I gaze at Marie. The fever purifies her flesh from day to day. She is -growing younger, she is becoming a little girl, amid the exhaustion of -her blood. Her deeply sunken face expresses an ardent longing, the -longing for the end, for rest; her eyes are enlarged, her pallid lips -remain half open as if to facilitate the passage of the final breath. -She is waiting, resigned, almost smiling, as ignorant of death as she -has been ignorant of life. - -Sometimes, we look each other in the face for long hours. I know not -what thought then arrests the cough upon her lips; she seems filled with -a single idea, which suffices to keep her awake, to give her more life -and more calmness. Her countenance grows tranquil, pink flushes appear -upon her cheeks; her limbs beneath the bed clothes have less stiffness; -Marie, under the influence of my glance, stretches herself out, shakes -off the iron grasp of death. As for me, I am absorbed in her, I share -her sufferings; little by little, it seems to me that I pass in through -her half open lips and that I become a part of this sick creature; I -experience a gentle and bitter sensation at languishing with her, at -slowly sinking away; I feel the inexorable disease take possession of my -entire body, shake me with increasing violence, in proportion as my -glances penetrate deeper and deeper into those of Marie; I say to myself -that I shall die simultaneously with her, and a great flood of joy -sweeps through me. - -Oh! what strange fascination and what wonderful pacification I -experience! Death is powerful; it has biting temptations, irresistible -attractions. One must not lean over the eyes of a dying creature, for -they are full of light and so deep that their abysses make one dizzy. -One wishes to see what those enlarged eyes behold, one is seized with -frightful curiosity in regard to the unknown. Every time Marie looks at -me, I desire to die, to leave this world with her, in order that I may -know what she will know; I imagine that she is soliciting me, that she -is begging me not to abandon her, that she is dreaming we will go away -in company, taking the risk of the same annihilation or the same -splendor. - -Then, I forget, I forget Laurence. Though I see Laurence in everything, -waking or sleeping--in the objects which surround me, in that which I -eat and in that which I drink--I do not see Laurence in the depths of -Marie's eyes. I see there only that blue glimmer, paler now, which I saw -one night while my lips touched the poor child's lips. That blue glimmer -does not speak to me of my love, does not speak to me of my grief; it is -the only thing at which I can gaze without weeping. This is the reason I -love Marie's chamber, this is the reason I love the dying girl with her -dilated eyes which have more purity, more gentleness, than the sky, for -the sky, when I lift my face towards it, speaks to me of Laurence. I am -about to lose myself in this oblivion, in this clear and serene light -which is so pure. Perhaps, thereby, my heart will be cured. - -When the night comes on and I can no longer see the blue glimmer in -Marie's eyes, I open the window, I gaze at the black wall. The square -patch of yellow light is there, empty or peopled, still and sad or -filled with silent movements. I feel a sharp sensation on finding myself -again, after several hours of forgetfulness, face to face with reality, -face to face with my jealousy and my anguish. Every evening, I -recommence the painful and colossal task of giving a meaning to those -dark stains which increase in size and roll in a bewildering way over -the surface of the wall. I have converted this search into a dolorous -recreation. I apply myself to it with an anxious patience, an obstinacy -full of fever, and each night I am drawn back to the window, though I -promise myself daily that I will no longer risk my reason there. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII - -MARIE'S DEATH - - -I have reached that plenitude of despair which is almost rest. I cannot -suffer additionally; this certainty that nothing can augment my tears is -a solace. My being has torn itself to such an extent that it has stopped -in pity. To-day, I can only wipe away my tears. - -And yet I feel that I have need of Heaven to be cured. I have the -brutishness of pain, I have not the tranquil joy of health. If my wounds -cannot be enlarged, they cannot remain open, bleeding drop by drop, with -inexorable suffering. - -Brothers, the hand which is to close them is a terrible hand, the hand -of death and truth. - -Yesterday, when night came on, Marie's chamber was filled with gloom and -silence. A candle, half hidden behind a vase on the mantelpiece, lighted -a corner of the ceiling; the walls and the floor were in darkness; the -bed was white amid the transparent shadows. Marie, paler, more broken, -had closed her eyes. I knew that she could not last through the night. -Pâquerette was asleep in her arm-chair, her hands crossed in her lap, -smiling in a dream at some imaginary gluttony; her chin resting on her -corsage, she was snoring softly, and the sound of her breath mingled -with the weakened rattle in Marie's throat. I felt myself suffocating -between this dying young girl and this old woman gorged with food. I -hastened to the window. I opened it. The weather was clear. - -I leaned my elbows upon the sill, and gazed at the square patch of -yellow light on the wall opposite. The stains came and went with -rapidity, fading away to re-appear of greater dimensions than before. -Never had the shadows been so nimble, so ironical; they seemed to be -indulging with delight in a jeering dance, in an inexplicable confusion -of shapes, wishing to entirely overthrow my reason. It was an -indescribable pell-mell, a mass of heads, necks and shoulders, which -rolled upon itself as if beaten and flattened by the strokes of a flail. -Then, suddenly, at the very instant when I was smiling bitterly, no -longer seeking to understand, supreme quietness settled down upon the -sombre and agile shadows; the stains gave a final leap, two profiles -were thrown upon the wall, enormous, full of energy, standing out with -sharpness and vigor. It seemed as if, weary of tormenting me, the -shadows had at last decided to reveal themselves; they were there, -black, powerful, full of superb truth and insolence. I recognized -Laurence and Jacques, out of all proportion, disdainful. The two -profiles approached each other slowly and united with a kiss. - -I had not ceased to smile. I felt in myself a sort of tearing sensation, -followed by a sudden feeling of satisfaction. My heart, with an enormous -pulsation, had driven out all the love which was stifling it, and that -love had gone out through my veins, giving me a final burn. I felt that -sensation of anguish which the patient experiences beneath the hands of -the surgeon: I suffered in order that I might cease to suffer. - -At last, the shadows had spoken, they had given me a certainty. I had -the truth written there, before me, upon the wall; I knew that which I -had sought to guess for so many long days; I stared fixedly at those two -black heads, which were kissing in the square patch of yellow light. - -I was astonished at suffering so little. I had thought I should die on -learning the truth, and I felt only an extreme lassitude, a benumbing of -all my being. For a long while, I remained leaning upon my elbows, -staring at the two shadows which were agitating themselves in a curious -fashion, and I thought of the terrible episode which was finished by the -kisses of two dark stains upon an illuminated wall. The conversation -which I had had with Jacques then returned forcibly to my memory; in the -gulf which had opened within me I heard, repeated one by one, gravely -and slowly, the words of the practical man, and those words, which I -imagined I was listening to for the first time, astonished me strangely, -uttered in the presence of the kisses which the shadow of Jacques was -giving to the shadow of Laurence. Who was deceived in all this? Was -Pâquerette right, or was I staring at one of those inexplicable -caprices of the mind, which urge people to lie to themselves? Could it -be possible that Jacques was devoting himself to save me, going as far -as deceptive caresses? Singular devotedness, which could strike me in my -flesh, in my heart, and cure me of an evil by an evil more terrible -still! - -Little by little, my thoughts grew troubled, I no longer possessed the -calmness of the first moment. - -I could not comprehend those kisses, and, at last, I began to fear that -what I had seen was only a miserable trick. - -The struggle between doubt and certainty was, for an instant, -re-established within me, sharper, more biting, than ever. I could not -imagine that Jacques loved Laurence; I believed more in him than I -believed in Pâquerette. Then, I said to myself that kisses have their -intoxication, and that he would learn to love this woman, if he did not -love her already, by applying his lips to her lips in that fashion. - -Hence I suffered anew. My jealousy was reawakened, my anguish again took -me by the throat. - -I should have retired from that window, I should not have abandoned -myself to the sight of those two shadows. What I suffered in a few -minutes cannot be told; it seemed to me that they had torn out my heart -and that I could not weep. - -The truth was clear, inexorable: little did it matter whether Jacques -loved or did not love Laurence; Laurence hung upon his neck, gave -herself to him, and she was henceforward dead for me. There was the sole -reality, the dénouement at once desired and feared. - -Amid the horrible torture which racked my being, I felt everything -crumble away within me; I realized that I was now without faith, without -love; I went back to Marie's bed and knelt beside it, sobbing. - -Marie awoke, she saw my tears. She made a superhuman effort, and, -quivering with fever, sat up in bed. I saw her bend down, leaning her -head upon my shoulder, I felt her wasted and burning arm encircle my -neck. Her eyes, luminous amid the darkness, full to overflowing with the -brightness of death, questioned me with fright and compassion. - -I would have liked to pray. I had need of clasping my hands, of -imploring a kind and compassionate Divinity. I felt myself weak and -deserted; in my childish fear I wanted to give myself to a good God, who -would take pity on me. While Jacques was tearing Laurence from me and -while the guilty couple, below me, were indulging in loving kisses, I -had an overwhelming desire to make my profession of faith and love, to -protest on my knees, to love elsewhere, in the light, before all the -world. But my lips were ignorant of prayer, I despairingly stretched out -my arms, in space, towards the mute sky. - -I encountered Marie's hand, and pressed it gently. Her dilated eyes were -still questioning me. - -"Oh! let us pray, my child," said I to her, "let us pray together." - -She seemed not to understand me. - -"What is the matter with you?" murmured she, in a faint and caressing -voice. - -And her feeble hand sought to wipe away my tears. Then, I looked at her -and my torn heart melted with pity. She was dying. She was already -beyond life, whiter, grander; her glassy eyes were filled with a soft -and serene ecstasy; her tranquil countenance was as if wrapped in -slumber, her thin lips no longer emitted the rattle. I realized that she -was about to die in my arms, at this solemn hour when my tenderness was -also dying, and her agony, mingled with that of my love, filled my soul -with compassion so deep that I again stretched out my hands into space -with a more biting anxiety, searching for some one. - -I lifted myself up, and, in a low, broken voice, repeated: - -"Let us pray, my child, let us pray together." - -Marie smiled. - -"Pray, Claude?" said she. "Why do you wish me to pray?" - -"To console us, Marie, to obtain pardon for us." - -"I have no pardon to ask for, I have no sorrow to be softened. See, I am -smiling, I am happy; my heart reproaches me with nothing." - -She was silent for a moment, putting aside her locks from her forehead; -then she resumed, in a weaker tone: - -"I know not how to pray, because I have never had to ask for pardon. The -woman who brought me up assured me that the wicked alone went to church -to obtain absolution for their crimes. I am a child who never did evil; -never have I had need of God. Whenever I wept, my tears flowed copiously -down my cheeks and the wind dried them. Do you wish me to pray for you, -Claude?" added she, after another period of silence. "You shall clasp my -hands and make me repeat the words which they teach to the children in -the villages. I will ask God not to make you weep any more!" - -Trembling, touched, I prayed for Marie, I prayed for myself. I found in -the depths of my being words of supplication and adoration, and I -uttered them one by one without moving my lips. I supplicated Heaven to -be merciful, to make death easy, to put this child to sleep in her -ecstasy, in her ignorance. And, while I prayed, Marie, without seeing -that I was addressing God, clung to my neck with greater force, bending -over my face. - -"Listen, Claude," said she; "I will get up to-morrow, I will put on a -white dress and we will leave this house. You will find a little chamber -in which we will shut ourselves up all alone. I plainly see that Jacques -loves me no more, because I am too weak, too white. You have a kind -heart; you will take good care of me and I will live with more -happiness, more gayety, than ever before. I am a trifle weary, I have -need of a kind brother. Will you be that brother, Claude?" - -These words, uttered with languishing tenderness, were horrible in the -mouth of the dying girl. She preserved her innocent shamelessness even -in the arms of death; she offered herself upon her dying bed as a sister -and a sweetheart of ten years of age. I supported her poor body as if -its flesh had been sacred, I listened to her ardent and low voice with a -holy compassion. - -I thought, no longer being able to pray. What then is evil? Was I not in -the presence of absolute good? Surely, God created everything sinless, -everything perfect. Evil is one of our inventions, one of the wounds -with which we are covered by reason of our own iniquity. This child who -was dying was no more disturbed, in life, by the kisses she had given -her admirers than a little girl is disturbed by the caresses which she -gives her doll. And Laurence, sad and desolate Laurence, showed such -degradation that her shamelessness was no more than the tacit acceptance -of a purely material act. Where shall we find the evil in all this, and -who would dare to punish Laurence and Marie, the one for her -brutishness, the other for her ignorance? The heart had fallen asleep, -or had not yet been awakened. It could not be the accomplice of the -flesh, which itself remained innocent in its silence. If I had had to -condemn these two women, I would have had more tears than severity, I -would have desired for them death, supreme peace. - -They ought to sleep very soundly in their tombs, these poor creatures -who have lived amid tumult and feverish gayety. Perhaps, nevertheless, -their hearts will love at last in death, suffering frightfully at the -thought of a life passed in loving without love; they would struggle -now, but they are nailed in their coffin. Marie was departing, white and -pure, astonished, quivering, realizing, perhaps, that she was dying -before having known life. I wished that she could take with her Laurence -who had no more to learn, having exhausted every pleasure. They would -both descend into the unknown with the same step, equally soiled, -equally innocent, daughters of God bruised by men. - -I was supporting Marie's head, which was weighed down with agony. - -"Where is Jacques?" she asked. - -"Jacques," I replied, "is with Laurence. They have abandoned us; we are -alone." - -"Alone! Has Laurence left you, Claude?" - -"Yes. She has left me. We are alone." - -She gently rubbed her hands one against the other. - -"Oh! it is good, oh! it is good to be alone," murmured she; "we can live -under the same roof. They have done well to arrange matters in this way. -We owe them our thanks. May they be happy on their side; we will be -happy on ours." - -Then, she assumed a tone of confidence, and said, in a low and joyous -voice: - -"You never knew it, but I did not like Laurence. She was bad to you; she -made you shed tears which I would willingly have dried. At night, I -could not sleep; I was rude even to Jacques; I wished to ascend to your -chamber to watch over you, in order that she might not harm you. You -will never leave me again, will you, Claude? I will be a good little -woman, and will take up as small a space as possible." - -Marie maintained silence for a short time, smiling at her thoughts. She -was growing weaker and weaker, she was becoming inert. I supported her -form, I felt the life quitting her flesh with every word she uttered. -She had now but a few minutes to live. Her smile faded away, she seemed -to be stricken with fear. - -"You are deceiving me, Claude," she suddenly resumed: "Laurence is not -in Jacques' chamber. You are trying to please me. Have you ever seen him -kiss her?" - -"Yes." - -"Where?" - -"Over there, opposite, upon the wall." - -Marie clasped her hands. - -"I wish to see," said she, pressing against me. - -She had a hollow and supplicating voice; she caressed me, humbly and -gently. - -I took her in my arms and lifted her from the bed. She was very light, -all palpitating; she abandoned herself to my grasp. I carried her -cautiously, scarcely feeling her weight, fearing to hurt her. My hands -touched with a holy respect this poor, dishevelled creature, who clung -to my neck, belonging already to death. - -When, with outstretched arms I held her before the window, Marie, whose -head was thrown back, looked at the sky. The heavens were of a deep -blue, sown with stars; the calm air was full of warm, slow quivers. The -eyes of the dying girl were fixed upon the stars, she breathed the -lukewarm air. Her visage, until then resigned, had a painful -contraction, like a revolt of the expiring flesh in the presence of the -breath of life. She was absorbed in her contemplation, her glance -wandered about in the sombre space, she seemed to be dreaming her last -dream. - -I heard her murmur and bent down. She said: - -"I do not see them, they are not kissing." - -And she gently agitated her poor hands in the air, as if to tear away -the veil which was stretched before her sight. - -Then, I lifted up her head. The shadows, in the square patch of yellow -light, were still kissing. They were blacker, more energetic, and their -sharpness made them frightful. Marie saw them. - -A glad smile showed itself upon her lips. With childish joy, with a -youthful voice, she approached my ear, caressing me with her hand. - -"Oh! I see them, I see them," she said. "They are kissing. They have -enormous heads, all black. I am afraid. Tell them that we are together, -that they must come no more to torment us. One night they kissed each -other thus; we also kissed on our side, and it was from that moment that -I no longer liked Laurence. Do you remember that night? Come closer that -I may kiss you. It will be our second kiss, that of our betrothal." - -Marie tremblingly placed her mouth against mine. I felt pass between my -lips a breath accompanied by a slight cry. The body which I held in my -arms had a convulsion, then relaxed. - -I glanced at Marie's eyes. They were wide open, but I searched vainly -for the blue glimmer which had burned in them on that night of which she -had just spoken. - -Marie was dead, dead in my arms. - -I carried back the corpse and laid it upon the bed, carefully covering -the body which until then I had held against my bosom. I sat down upon -the edge of the bed, I leaned the head of the child upon one of my arms, -holding her hands, looking at her face which yet seemed to live and -smile. She was taller in death, more serene, purer. - -Great tears, flowing down my cheeks, fell amid the hair of the dead -girl, which covered my knees. - -I know not how long I remained thus, amid the silence and the darkness. -Suddenly, Pâquerette awoke, she saw the corpse. She arose, all in a -tremble, and ran to get the candle behind the vase upon the mantelpiece; -then, when she had held the flame before Marie's lips and had realized -that all was, indeed, over, she gave vent to noisy despair. This old -woman recoiled with fright from death which she felt beside her; she -cried out with grief as she thought that she also must soon die. She had -never believed in the sickness of this poor girl, who seemed to her too -young to have departed so quickly; before the rapid and terrible -dénouement she trembled with terror. Her cries must have been heard in -the street. - -A sound of footsteps came from the stairway. Some neighbor was -ascending, attracted by Pâquerette's exclamations. - -The door opened; Laurence and Jacques appeared upon the threshold. - -Oh! brothers, I cannot continue the frightful narrative to-day. My hand -trembles, my eyes are filled with gloom. To-morrow, you shall know all. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII - -LAURENCE'S DEPARTURE - - -Laurence and Jacques, confused and frightened, appeared upon the -threshold of the door. - -Jacques, on seeing Marie's corpse, clasped his hands in terror and -astonishment. He had not expected such a sudden death. He hurried to the -bed, knelt down at its foot, and buried his face in the sheet which was -on the point of falling to the floor. Deep anguish seemed to be crushing -him. He did not stir. I could not tell whether he was weeping or not. - -Laurence, pale, her eyes dry, remained upon the threshold, not daring to -advance. She quivered and turned away her glances. - -"Dead! dead!" she murmured, in a low voice. - -And she took two or three steps, as if to see the better. Then, she -stood still in the middle of the chamber, alone. - -As for me, I yet held the corpse in my arms, I covered myself with it, I -protected myself against Laurence who was approaching. - -"Do not advance," cried I to her, harshly, "do not come here to soil -this child who is sleeping. Remain where you are. I have to judge and -condemn you." - -"Claude," she answered, in a meek voice, "let me kiss her." - -"No, no, your lips are all bruised with Jacques' kisses. You would -profane the dead." - -Jacques seemed to be asleep, his head in the sheet. Laurence fell upon -her knees. - -"Listen, Claude," she said, stretching out her hands towards me: "I know -not what you see upon my lips, but do not speak to me with such -harshness. I have need of gentleness." - -I stared at this woman, who was humbly complaining, and I failed to -recognize Laurence. I clasped Marie closer, fearing some weakness. - -"Arise and listen to me," I cried out to Laurence: "I wish to make an -end of this. You come from Jacques' room. You should not have come here. -You opened the wrong door." - -Laurence arose. - -"Then, it is your intention to drive me away, is it?" asked she. - -"It is not I who drive you away. You have driven yourself away by -accepting another asylum. Remain in that asylum." - -"I have not chosen another asylum. You are deceived, Claude. There are -no strange kisses upon my lips. I love you." - -She advanced timidly, fascinating, her arms outstretched. - -"Do not approach, do not approach," I cried again, with a movement of -fright. "I do not wish you to touch me, I do not wish you to touch -Marie. The poor dead girl protects me against you; she is here, upon my -breast, asleep; she calms my heart. I feel myself terribly torn. I -should, perhaps, have had the baseness to pardon you, if you had come -into our chamber and there dragged yourself at my feet, for there you -would have been all-powerful over me, by reason of that infamous love -with which misery and abandonment have inspired me. Here, you can exert -no influence over my heart, no influence over my body. I still have upon -my lips Marie's soul, her last breath and her last kiss. I do not wish -your soiled mouth to take that soul from me." - -Laurence paused, sobbing, gazing at me through her tears. - -"Claude," murmured she, "you do not understand me, you have never -understood me. I love you. I never knew what you wanted of me; I gave -myself as I knew how to give myself. Why do you drive me away? I have -done no evil; if you think I have done evil, you can beat me and we will -still live in company." - -I was weary, I felt my heart bleed; I was in haste to see this woman -depart, I implored her in my turn. - -"Laurence," said I, more gently, "in pity go away. If you have ever had -any love for me, spare me further suffering. Our tenderness for each -other is dead, we must separate. Go forth into life, where you will, but -take the path that leads to goodness and happiness, if you can. Let me -recover my hope and my gayety." - -She folded her arms in despair, repeating several times, in a wild tone: - -"All is over, all is over!" - -"Yes, all is over," answered I, with emphasis. - -Then, Laurence fell upon the floor in a mass, and burst into violent -sobs. - -Pâquerette, who had tranquilly resumed possession of her arm-chair, -looked at her with curiosity. The old wretch was filled with -astonishment, chewing some lozenges which she had just found, Marie not -having lived long enough to finish the box. - -"Ah! my child," said she to Laurence, "have you also lost your senses? -Great heavens! what fools lovers are in these days! In my time, people -quitted each other gayly. Do you not see that it is greatly to your -advantage to separate from Claude. He consents. Thank him, and depart at -once." - -Laurence did not hear her, she was striking the floor with her feet and -with her fists, a prey to a sort of nervous crisis. Lightly clad, she -twisted, panting, full of quivers which shook her all over. She bit her -hair which had fallen over her face, she uttered half stifled cries, -confused words which were lost amid her sobs. - -I saw her from head to foot, crushed and quivering; I felt neither pity -nor anger. - -Then, she got upon her knees, and, her face convulsed, her flesh -reddened and blued by tears, dragging herself towards me in her twisted -and hanging skirts, she cried out: - -"You are right, Claude, I am bad. I prefer to speak the truth, to tell -you everything. You will, perhaps, pardon me afterwards. Your eyes have -rightly seen: my lips should be red with Jacques' kisses. I went to him, -I forced him to treason. I am a wicked wretch!" - -Her sobs convulsed her bosom. They mounted from the depths of her being -in enormous and painful breaths, swelled her throat horribly, made her -whole body undulate, burst from her lips in hollow and heart-rending -cries. - -"Have mercy upon me," murmured she. "I did not know that Jacques' kisses -would separate us. I acted without reflection, without thinking of you. -I grew weary sometimes, in the evening, when you came to this chamber. -Then, I sought to amuse myself. That is the true state of the case; it -admits of no other explanation. I do not wish to quit you. Pardon me, -pardon me!" - -At this last hour, this woman was more impenetrable than ever. I could -not understand this creature, cold and weighed down, nervous and -suppliant. For a year I had lived beside her, and yet she was as much a -stranger to me as on the first day of our acquaintance. I had seen her -turn by turn old and young, active and sluggish, cold and loving, -cynical and humble; I could not reconstruct a soul with these diverse -elements, I stood dumb before her dull and grimacing visage which hid -from me an unknown heart. She loved me, perhaps; she yielded to that -craving for love and esteem which is found in the depths of the most -depraved natures. But I no longer sought to understand her; I realized -that Laurence would always remain a mystery to me, a woman made up of -gloom and vertigo; I knew that she would remain in my life like an -inexplicable nightmare, like a feverish night full of monstrous and -incomprehensible visions. I did not wish to listen to her, I felt myself -still in a dream; I was afraid of yielding to the madness of the -darkness, I yearned with all my strength for the light. - -I made a movement of impatience, refusing with a gesture, firmly closing -my lips. Laurence, fatigued, pushed her hair from her face; she looked -straight at me, silent, disheartened, she no longer supplicated, for -words had failed her. She begged me by her attitude, by her glance, by -her disturbed countenance. - -I turned away my head. Laurence then arose painfully, and went to the -door without taking her eyes from me. She stood for an instant, -straight, upon the threshold. She seemed to me to have grown taller, and -I almost weakened, almost threw myself into her arms, on seeing that she -wore, at this last hour, the ragged remains of her blue silk dress. I -loved that dress, I would have liked to tear a rag from it to keep in -remembrance of my youth. - -Laurence, walking backwards, passed into the darkness of the stairway, -addressing to me a final prayer, and the dress was now only a black -flood which quiveringly glided over the steps. - -I was free. - -I placed my hand upon my heart: it was beating feebly and calmly. I was -cold. Deep silence reigned within my being, it seemed to me that I had -awakened from a dream. - -I had forgotten Marie, whose head still peacefully reposed upon my -breast. Pâquerette, who had been dozing, suddenly arose and laid the -body upon the bed, saying to me as she did so: - -"Look at the poor child! You have not even closed her eyes. She seems to -gaze at you and smile." - -Marie was gazing at me. She had an infant's sleep, a supreme peace, the -forehead of a pure and sainted martyr. She seemed happy at what she had -understood before her death, when she had said that we were alone, that -we could love each other. I closed her eyes that she might slumber in -this thought of love, and kissed her eyelids. - -Pâquerette placed two candles upon a little table near the corpse; then -she resumed her doze, curled up in her arm-chair. Jacques had not -stirred; all my words, all those of Laurence, had passed over him -without making him start. On his knees, his face buried in the sheet, he -was absorbed in some harsh and terrible thought which overwhelmed him -and deprived him of speech. - -The chamber was now silent. The two candles sent forth a pale light, -which whitened the bed clothes and Marie's uncovered face. Beyond this -narrow circle of brightness, all was but uncertain gloom. Amid this -gloom, I vaguely perceived Pâquerette asleep and Jacques kneeling. I -went to the window. - -I passed the night standing there, with a narrow bit of sky above me. I -looked at Marie and I looked within myself; I towered above Jacques, I -distinguished Laurence far off, very far off, in my memory. My mind was -healthy, I explained everything to myself, I comprehended my being and -the creatures who surrounded me. It was thus that I was enabled to see -the truth. - -Yes, Jacques had not been deceived. I was ill. I had fever, delirium. I -feel to-day, from the fatigue of my heart, what must have been the -violence of my disease. I am proud of my sufferings, I understand that I -have not been infamous, that my despair was but the rebellion of my -heart incensed at the society into which I had unwittingly brought it. I -am awkward before shame, I cannot accept common love; I have not the -tranquil indifference necessary to live in this corner of Paris, where -beautiful youth wallows in the midst of the mud. I need the pure -mountain summits, the broad country. If I had encountered a spotless -girl, I would have knelt before her and given myself entirely to her; I -would have been as pure as she, and, without struggle, without effort, -we would have united our fortunes, we would have become husband and -wife. Life has its fatalities. One night, I met Laurence with her throat -uncovered; I was imprudent enough to shelter this woman, and at length I -loved her, loved her as if she had been a spotless angel, with all my -heart, all my purity. She repayed my affection with suffering and -despair; she had had the baseness to allow herself to be loved without -ever having once loved on her side. I tore myself, before this dead -soul, in a vain attempt to make myself understood. I wept like a child -who wishes to kiss his mother, standing on the tips of his little feet, -but unable to reach the visage of her in whom all his hope is centred. - -I said these things to myself during that supreme night, and I said to -myself, besides, that some day I would speak and show the truth to my -brethren, the hearts of twenty years. I found a great lesson in my -wasted youth, in my broken love; my entire being cried out: Why did you -not remain at home, in Provence, among the tall grass, beneath the -glowing sunbeams? There you would have increased in honor, in strength. -But, when you came here to seek life and glory, why did you not keep -from the mud and pollution of this great city? Did you not know that man -has neither two youths nor two loves? You should have lived like a -well-ordered young man amid your work, and you should have loved some -pure and spotless creature, not Laurence. - -Those who accept without tears the life which I have led for a year past -have no heart, those who weep as I have wept come out of that life with -broken body and dying soul. The Laurences must be killed, then, as -Jacques said, since they kill our flesh and our love. I am only a child -who has suffered, I do not wish to preach here. But I show my empty -breast, my wounded and bleeding body; I desire that my wounds may make -the young men of my age tremble, and may arrest them on the edge of the -gulf. To those who delight in brightness and purity I will say: "Take -care, you are about to enter the gloom, the realm of temptation." To -those whose hearts are asleep and who are indifferent in regard to evil -I will say: "Since you cannot love, try at least to remain worthy and -honest." - -The night was clear, I saw far into the blue sky. Marie, now stiffened, -slept heavily; the sheet thrown over her had long folds, sharp and hard. -I thought of the annihilation of the flesh, I thought that we had great -need of faith, we who live in the hope of to-morrow and who know not -what to-morrow may bring forth. If I had had a God in Heaven, whose -protecting arm I had felt about me, I should not, perhaps, have yielded -to the vertigo of a wretched passion. I should always have had -consolations, even in the midst of my tears; I should have employed my -excessive love in prayer, instead of not being able to bestow it upon -any one and feeling it stifle me. I had abandoned myself, because I had -faith in myself only and had lost all my strength. I do not regret -having obeyed my reason, having lived in freedom, having had respect -only for the true and the just. But, nevertheless, when the fever seizes -upon me, when I tremble with weakness, I am filled with fear, I become a -child; I would prefer to be controlled by the Divine will, to efface -myself, to allow God to act in me and for me. - -Then, I thought of Marie, asking myself where was her soul at this hour. -In the great realm of nature, without doubt. I indulged in the dream -that each soul is merged in the grand whole, that dead humanity is but -an immense breath, a single spirit. Upon earth we are separated, we are -ignorant of each other, we weep at our inability to unite ourselves; -beyond life there is a complete penetration, a marriage of all with all, -a single and universal love. I looked at the sky. I seemed to see in the -calm and quiet stretch of blue the soul of the world, the eternal soul -made up of all the others. Then, I experienced a great delight, I had -shot ahead of my cure, I had arrived at pardon and faith. Brothers, my -youth still smiled upon me. I thought that some day we would be reunited -all four--Marie and Jacques, Laurence and myself; we will understand -each other, we will pardon each other; we will love each other without -having to hear the sobs of our bodies, and we will experience a supreme -peace in exchanging those tendernesses which we could not give each -other when we lived in the flesh. - -The thought that there is a misunderstanding upon earth, and that -everything is explained in the other world, consoled me. I said to -myself that I would wait for death in order to love. I stood near the -window, in the presence of the sky, in the presence of Marie's corpse, -and, little by little, a gentle coolness, a limitless hope, came to me -from that dead young girl and the dreamy space. - -The candles had burned out. The silence in the chamber grew heavier and -heavier, and the darkness increased. Pâquerette still slept. Jacques -had not moved. - -Suddenly he arose, he stared around him in terror. I saw him lean over -the corpse and kiss it on the forehead. The cold flesh sent a shiver -through him. Then, he noticed me. He came to me, hesitated, and then -offered me his hand. - -I looked at this man whom I could not comprehend, who seemed to me as -obscure as Laurence. I did not know whether he had lied to me or whether -he had wished to save me. This man had struck my heart a heavy blow. But -I had recovered hope, I had pardoned. I took his hand and pressed it. - -Then, he went away, thanking me with a look. - -In the morning, I found myself beside Marie's bed, on my knees, still -weeping, but my tears were mild, softened. I wept over this poor girl -whom death had carried off in her spring, ignorant of the kisses of -love. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX - -CONCLUSION - - -Brothers, I am coming to you. I set out to-morrow for the country, for -Provence. I wish to draw a new youth from our broad horizons, from our -pure and glowing sunbeams. - -My pride has led me to aim at too lofty a mark. I believed myself ripe -for the struggle, while in reality I was but a weak and inexperienced -child. Perhaps, I shall always remain a child. - -I rely upon your friendship, on my remembrances. Near you, I will recall -the days of the past, I will quiet myself, I will succeed in curing my -heart. We will go into the plains, on the shady bank of the river; we -will resume the life we led when we were sixteen, and I will then forget -the terrible year through which I have just passed. I will return to -those days of ignorance and hope, when I knew nothing of reality and -when I dreamed of a better earth. I will become young again, believing; -I will recommence life with new dreams. - -Oh! I feel all the thoughts of my youth return to me in a body, filling -me with strength and hope. Everything had disappeared amid the gloom -into which I had entered--you and the world, my daily toil and my future -glory. I lived only for a single idea: to love and to suffer. To-day, -amid my tranquillity, I feel awakening, one by one, those thoughts which -I recognize and to which I extend a hearty welcome, with a softened -soul. I was blind, but now I see clearly within me; the evil is torn -away, I find the world as I left it, broad for youthful courage, -luminous, full of applause. I will resume my labor, recover my strength, -struggle in the name of my faith, in the name of my tenderness. - -Make a place for me beside you, brothers, let us live in the pure air, -in the fields sparkling with sunbeams, in our pure love. Let us prepare -ourselves for life by loving each other, by going hand in hand in -freedom beneath the blue sky. Wait for me, and make Provence sweeter, -more encouraging, to receive me and restore me my childhood. - -Last night, when at the window, in the presence of Marie's corpse, I -purified myself with faith, I saw the sky, full of gloom, whiten at the -horizon. All night long I had had before my eyes the black stretch of -space, pricked by the yellow light of the stars; I had vainly sounded -the infinity of the sombre gulf, growing terrified at the immense -calmness, at the unfathomable depths. This calmness and these depths -were lighted up; the darkness quivered and slowly rolled back, allowing -its mysteries to be seen; the fear inspired by the gloom gave place to -the hope inspired by the growing brightness. The whole sky grew -inflamed, little by little; it acquired rosy tints as soft as smiles; it -bathed in the pale light, sparkling with faint brilliancy. And, alone in -the presence of this tearing away of the night, of this slow and -majestic birth of the day, I felt in my heart a young, invincible -strength, an immense hope. - -Brothers, it was the dawn. - - - - -THE END - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Claude's Confession, by Émile Zola - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAUDE'S CONFESSION *** - -***** This file should be named 63819-0.txt or 63819-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/1/63819/ - -Produced by Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free -Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi -Trust.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of -the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you'll have -to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this ebook. - -Title: Claude's Confession - -Author: Émile Zola - -Translator: George D. Cox - -Release Date: November 20, 2020 [EBook #63819] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAUDE'S CONFESSION *** - - - - -Produced by Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free -Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi -Trust.) - - - - - - -</pre> - - -<h2>CLAUDE'S CONFESSION.</h2> - - -<h5>BY</h5> - - -<h3>ÉMILE ZOLA.</h3> - - -<h5>AUTHOR Of "NANA," "L'ASSOMMOIR," "THE GIRL IN SCARLET," "HELENE,"<br /> -"POT-BOUILLE," "THERESE RAQUIN," "THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,"<br /> -"MAGDALEN FERAT," "A MAD LOVE: OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT,"<br /> -"THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,"<br /> -"LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,"<br /> -"ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE'S TEMPTATION."</h5> - - -<h4>TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH</h4> - -<h4>BY GEORGE D. COX.</h4> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<blockquote> -<p>"Claude's Confession," by Émile Zola, is one of the most exciting and -naturalistic romances that great author has ever produced. It is founded -on his own life, and he himself, under the name of Claude, figures as -the hero. The book is a deep and searching analysis of human feelings, -and surely the miseries of student life in the Paris Quartier Latin were -never set forth in such vivid and startling fashion as in its pages. -Claude, Laurence, Marie, Jacques and Pâquerette play parts in a dark -drama of blasted youth and dissipation truly Parisian in all its -characteristics, and the interest excited in these personages and their -eventful careers is simply overwhelming. The plot is well handled, and -all the incidents possess dramatic intensity. The description of the -public ball is a bit of lurid word-painting which Zola has never -surpassed, while that of the trip of Claude and Laurence to the country -in the spring sparkles with romantic and poetic beauty. Marie's death -and the dénouement are depicted in a style that is powerful in the -highest degree. "Claude's Confession" is one of the strongest books -imaginable, and will certainly fascinate all who take it up.</p></blockquote> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>PHILADELPHIA:</h4> - -<h4>T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;</h4> - -<h4>306 CHESTNUT STREET.</h4> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CLAUDE'S CONFESSION.</h4> - -<h5>BY ÉMILE ZOLA.</h5> - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>DEDICATION</h4> - -<hr class="r5" /> - - -<h4>TO MY FRIENDS, P. CÉZANNE AND J. B. BAILLE.</h4> - - -<p>You knew, my friends, the wretched youth whose letters I now publish. -That youth is no more. He wished to become a man amid the wreck and -oblivion of his early days.</p> - -<p>I have long hesitated about giving the following pages to the public. I -doubted my right to lay bare a body and a heart; I questioned myself, -asking if it was allowable to divulge the secret of a confession. Then, -when I re-read the panting and feverish letters, hanging together by a -mere thread, I was discouraged; I said to myself that readers would, -doubtless, accord but a cold reception to such a delirious and excited -publication. Grief has but one cry: the work is an incessant complaint. -I hesitated as a man and as a writer.</p> - -<p>At last, I thought, one day, that our age has need of lessons and that I -had, perhaps, in my hands, the means of curing a few wounded hearts. -People wish poets and novelists to moralize. I knew not how to mount the -pulpit, but I possessed the work of blood and tears of a poor soul—I -could, in my turn, instruct and console. Claude's avowals had the -supreme precept of sobs, the high and pure moral of the fall and the -redemption.</p> - -<p>I then saw that these letters were such as they should be. I have no -idea how the public will accept them, but I have faith in their -frankness, even in their fury. They are human.</p> - -<p>Hence, my friends, I resolved to publish this book. I took my decision -in the name of truth and the general good. Besides, looking above the -masses, I thought of you: it would please me to relate to you again the -terrible story which has already filled your eyes with tears.</p> - -<p>This story is bare and true even to crudity. The delicate may not like -it, but it will teach them a lesson they cannot fail to profit by. I -have not felt at liberty to cut out a single line, being certain that -these pages are the complete expression of a heart in which there was -more light than darkness. They were written by a nervous and loving -youth, who gave himself entirely to them amid the quivering of his flesh -and the bounds of his soul. They are the morbid manifestation of a -special temperament, which had a bitter need of the real and the false -but sweet hopes of a dream. The whole book is a struggle between -illusion and reality. If Claude's strange love affair should make people -judge him severely, they will pardon him at the dénouement, when he -lifts himself up, younger and stronger, relying upon God.</p> - -<p>There was an apostle in Claude. He tells us of his desolated youth, -shows us his wounds and cries aloud what he has suffered that his -brethren may avoid like sufferings. These are evil times for hearts -which resemble his.</p> - -<p>I can in a word characterize his work, accord him the highest praise -that I desire as an artist, and, at the same time, reply to all the -objections that may be made:</p> - -<p>Claude's aspirations were too lofty.</p> - -<p style="margin-left: 60%;">ÉMILE ZOLA.</p> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CONTENTS</h4> - -<p>Chapter</p> -<p>I. <a href="#A_MANSARDE_IN_THE_LATIN_QUARTER">A MANSARDE IN THE LATIN QUARTER</a><br /> -II. <a href="#A_POETS_LONGINGS">A POET'S LONGINGS</a><br /> -III. <a href="#THE_YOUNG_HARVEST-GIRL">THE YOUNG HARVEST-GIRL</a><br /> -IV. <a href="#TEMPTATION">TEMPTATION</a><br /> -V. <a href="#PAQUERETTE">PAQUERETTE</a><br /> -VI. <a href="#DESPAIR">DESPAIR</a><br /> -VII. <a href="#LAURENCE">LAURENCE</a><br /> -VIII. <a href="#A_MISSION_FROM_ON_HIGH">A MISSION FROM ON HIGH</a><br /> -IX. <a href="#THE_COURSE_OF_REFORMATION">THE COURSE OF REFORMATION</a><br /> -X. <a href="#THE_EMBROIDERY_STRIP">THE EMBROIDERY STRIP</a><br /> -XI. <a href="#ON_THE_WAY_TO_THE_BALL">ON THE WAY TO THE BALL</a><br /> -XII. <a href="#THE_PUBLIC_BALL">THE PUBLIC BALL</a><br /> -XIII. <a href="#AN_ACCEPTANCE_OF_REALITY">AN ACCEPTANCE OF REALITY</a><br /> -XIV. <a href="#JACQUES_AND_MARIE">JACQUES AND MARIE</a><br /> -XV. <a href="#BITING_POVERTY">BITING POVERTY</a><br /> -XVI. <a href="#REMINISCENCES">REMINISCENCES</a><br /> -XVII. <a href="#CLAUDES_LOVE">CLAUDE'S LOVE</a><br /> -XVIII. <a href="#JACQUES_SUPPER">JACQUES' SUPPER</a><br /> -XIX. <a href="#A_TRIP_TO_THE_COUNTRY">A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY</a><br /> -XX. <a href="#A_BITTER_AVOWAL">A BITTER AVOWAL</a><br /> -XXI. <a href="#A_HORRIBLE_PROPOSITION">A HORRIBLE PROPOSITION</a><br /> -XXII. <a href="#THE_SHADOWS_ON_THE_WALL">THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL</a><br /> -XXIII. <a href="#PRACTICAL_ADVICE">PRACTICAL ADVICE</a><br /> -XXIV. <a href="#SAD_REFLECTIONS">SAD REFLECTIONS</a><br /> -XXV. <a href="#THE_FAIR">THE FAIR</a><br /> -XXVI. <a href="#AT_MARIES_BEDSIDE">AT MARIE'S BEDSIDE</a><br /> -XXVII. <a href="#MARIES_DEATH">MARIE'S DEATH</a><br /> -XXVIII. <a href="#LAURENCES_DEPARTURE">LAURENCE'S DEPARTURE</a><br /> -XXIX. <a href="#CONCLUSION">CONCLUSION</a></p> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<h4>CLAUDE'S CONFESSION.</h4> - -<h5>BY ÉMILE ZOLA.</h5> - - -<h5>AUTHOR Of "NANA," "L'ASSOMMOIR," "THE GIRL IN SCARLET," "HELENE,"<br /> -"POT-BOUILLE," "THERESE RAQUIN," "THE MYSTERIES OF MARSEILLES,"<br /> -"MAGDALEN FERAT," "A MAD LOVE: OR, THE ABBE AND HIS COURT,"<br /> -"THE MYSTERIES OF THE COURT OF LOUIS NAPOLEON,"<br /> -"LA BELLE LISA; OR, THE PARIS MARKET GIRLS,"<br /> -"ALBINE; OR, THE ABBE'S TEMPTATION."</h5> - - -<hr class="r5" /> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER I</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_MANSARDE_IN_THE_LATIN_QUARTER">A MANSARDE IN THE LATIN QUARTER</a></h4> - - -<p>Winter is here: the air in the morning becomes fresher, and Paris puts -on her mantle of fog. This is the season of social soirées. Chilly lips -search for kisses; lovers, driven from the country, take refuge beneath -the mansardes, and, huddling together before the hearth, enjoy, amid the -noise of the rain, their eternal spring.</p> - -<p>As for me, I live in sadness: I have the winter without the spring, -without a sweetheart. My garret, away up a damp staircase, is large and -irregular; the corners lose themselves in the gloom, the bare and -slanting walls make of the chamber a sort of corridor which stretches -out in the form of a bier. The wretched furniture, the narrow planks, -ill fitted and painted a horrible red color, crack funereally when they -are touched. Shreds of faded damask hang from the canopy of the bed, and -the curtainless window opens upon a huge black wall, never changing and -always repulsive.</p> - -<p>In the evening, when the wind shakes the door and the walls are dimly -outlined by the flame of my lamp, I feel a sad and icy weariness press -upon me. I pause before the expiring fire on the hearth, before the ugly -brown roses on the wall paper, before the faïence vases in which the -last flowers have faded, and I imagine I hear everything complain of -solitude and poverty. This complaint is heart-rending. The entire -mansarde demands of me laughter, the riches of its sisters. The hearth -exacts a huge, joyous blaze; the vases, forgetting the snow, sigh for -fresh roses; the very air speaks to me of flaxen hair and white -shoulders.</p> - -<p>I listen and cannot help feeling sorrowful. I have no chandelier to -suspend from the ceiling, no carpet to hide the irregular and broken -planks. And, when my chamber refuses to smile save upon a beautiful -white curtain, upon plain but shining furniture, I grow more sorrowful -still because I cannot satisfy it. Then it seems to me more deserted and -miserable than ever: the wind comes in colder gusts, the gloom grows -denser; the dust gathers in heaps on the floor, the wall paper tears -showing the plaster. There is a general pause, and, in the silence, I -hear the sobs of my heart.</p> - -<p>Brothers, do you remember the days when life for us was a dream? We had -friendship, we had visions of love and glory. Do you recall those cool -evenings in Provence, when, as the stars came out, we sat down in the -furrows still glowing with the heat of the sun? The crickets chirped; -the harmonious breath of summer nights enveloped our chat. All three of -us let our lips say what our hearts thought, and, in our simplicity, we -adored queens, we crowned ourselves with laurels. You told me your -dreams, I told you mine. Then, we deigned to come back to earth. I -confided to you my plan of life, consecrated to toil and struggles. -Feeling the wealth of my mind, I was pleased at the idea of poverty. You -were ascending, like me, the stairway of the mansardes, you hoped to -nourish yourselves on high thoughts; in your ignorance of the reality, -you seemed to believe that the artist in his sleepless night gains the -bread of the morrow.</p> - -<p>At other times, when the flowers were sweeter, the stars more radiant, -we caressed visions of loveliness. Each of us had his sweetheart. -Yours—do you recollect?—brown and laughing girls, were queens -of the harvest and vintage; they played about, decked with ears of grain -and bunches of grapes, and ran along the paths, carried away in the whirl -of their turbulent youth. Mine, pale and blonde, had the royalty of the -lakes and clouds; she walked languidly, crowned with verbenas, seeming -at each step about to quit the earth.</p> - -<p>Do you remember, brothers, that last month we went thus to dream amid -the fields and draw the courage of man from the holy faith of the child? -I was weary of dreaming, I thought myself strong enough for reality. -Five weeks have passed since I left our broad district, fertilized by -the hot breath of the south. I grasped your hands, said adieu to our -favorite field, and was the first to go in search of the crown and the -sweetheart reserved by God for our twentieth year.</p> - -<p>"Claude," you said to me at the moment of departure, "you are about to -begin the struggle. To-morrow, we shall not be beside you as formerly, -imparting to you hope and courage. You will find yourself alone and -poor, having only recollections to people and gild your solitude. The -way is rough, people tell us. Go, however, since you thirst for life. -Remember your plans: be firm and loyal in action, as you were in your -dreams; live in the garrets, eat your dry bread, smile at want. As a -man, do not jeer at the ignorance of the child, but accept the hard -labor of the grand and the beautiful. Suffering elevates a man, and -tears are dried one day when one has greatly loved. Have courage and -wait for us. We will console you and scold you from here. We cannot -follow you now, for we do not possess your strength; our dream is yet -too seductive for us to change it for reality."</p> - -<p>Scold me, brothers, and console me. I am only commencing to live, and I -am already very sad. Ah! how joyous was the mansarde of our dreams! How -the window sparkled in the sunshine, and how poverty and solitude -rendered life there studious and peaceful! Want had for us the luxury of -light and smiles. But do you know how ugly a real mansarde is? Do you -know how cold one is when one is alone, without flowers, without white -curtains upon which to rest the eyes? Light and gayety pass by without -entering, fearing to venture amid the gloom and silence.</p> - -<p>Where are my fields and my brooks? Where are my setting suns, which -gilded the tops of the poplars and changed the rocks into sparkling -palaces? Have I deceived myself, brothers? Am I only a lad who would be -a man before his time? Have I had too great confidence in my strength, -and should I still be dreaming beside you?</p> - -<p>The day is breaking. I have passed the night before my extinguished -fire, looking at my poor walls and relating to you my first sufferings. -A wan light illuminates the roofs, a few flakes of snow fall slowly from -the pale, sad sky. The awakening of great cities is tumultuous. I hear, -coming up to me, those street murmurs which resemble sobs.</p> - -<p>No; this window refuses me the sunlight, this floor is damp, this -mansarde is deserted. I cannot love, I cannot work here.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER II</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_POETS_LONGINGS">A POET'S LONGINGS</a></h4> - - -<p>You are irritated by my lack of courage, you accuse me of coveting -velvet and bronze, of not accepting the holy poverty of the poet. Alas! -I love broad curtains, candelabra, marble upon which the chisel has left -the impress of its powerful caresses. I love everything that shines, -everything that has beauty, grace and richness. I need princely -dwellings, or, rather, the fields with their carpets of fresh and -perfumed moss, their draperies of leaves, their wide horizons of light. -I prefer the luxury of God to the luxury of men.</p> - -<p>Pardon, brothers, for silk is so soft, lace so light; the sun laughs so -gayly in gold and crystal!</p> - -<p>Let me dream; have no fear for my pride. I wish to hear your strong and -cheering words, to embellish my mansarde with gayety, to illuminate it -with noble thoughts. If I feel too lonely, I will create for myself an -ideal sweetheart who, responsive to my call, will run to kiss me on the -forehead after the accomplishment of my task. If the floor be cold, if I -have no bread, I will forget winter and hunger in feeling my heart warm. -In one's twentieth year it is easy to be the artisan of one's joy.</p> - -<p>The other night, the voice of the winds was melancholy, my lamp was -dying, my fire was extinguished; sleeplessness had troubled my mind, -pale phantoms were wandering about me in the gloom. I was afraid, -brothers, I felt myself weak, I shed tears. The first ray of dawn drove -off the nightmare. Now, the obstacle is no longer in me. I accept the -struggle.</p> - -<p>I wish to live in a desert, hearing only my heart, seeing only my dream. -I desire to forget men, to question myself and reply. Like a young wife -whose bosom quivers with a mother's anxiety, the poet, when he thinks an -idea awakening in him, should have an hour of ecstasy and reflection. He -runs to shut himself up with his dear burden, fears to believe in his -good fortune, interrogates his soul, hopes and doubts in turn. Then, -when a sharper pain tells him that God has made his mind fruitful, for -long months he shuns the crowd, giving himself entirely to the love of -the masterpiece which Heaven has confided to him.</p> - -<p>Let him hide himself, and enjoy like a miser the anguish of production; -to-morrow, in his pride, he will come forth to demand caresses for the -fruit of his mind.</p> - -<p>I am poor; I should live alone. My pride would suffer from commonplace -consolations, my hand wishes to press only those of my equals. I am -ignorant of the world, but I feel that Want is so cold she must freeze -the hearts around her, and that, being the sister of Vice, she is timid -and ashamed when she is noble. I carry my head aloft and do not mean to -lower it.</p> - -<p>Poverty and Solitude, be you then my guests. Be my guardian angels, my -muses, my companions with harsh but encouraging voices. Make me strong, -give me the science of living, tell me the cost of my daily bread. May -your vigorous caresses, so sharp that they seem like wounds, force me -towards the good and the just. I will relight my lamp during these -winter nights, and I will feel you both beside me, icy and silent, -bending over my table, dictating to me the hard truth. When, weary of -gloom and silence, I put by my pen and curse you, your melancholy smiles -will, perhaps, make me doubt my dreams. Then your serene and sad peace -will render you so beautiful that I will take you for my sweethearts. -Our loves shall be as serene and deep as you; the lovers of sixteen will -envy the bitter pleasure of our fruitful kisses.</p> - -<p>But, nevertheless, brothers, it would be delightful to me to feel the -purple upon my shoulders, not to drape myself with it before the crowd, -but to live more generously beneath the rich and superb tissue. It would -be delightful to me to be king of Asia, to dream night and day upon a -bed of roses in one of those fairy-like dwelling-places, harems of -flowers and sultanas. The marble baths with perfumed fountains, the -galleries of honeysuckles supported by silver trellises, the immense -halls with ceilings sown with stars, do not these constitute the palace -which the angels should build for each young man of twenty? Youth wishes -at its festival all that sings, all that shines. When the first kiss is -given, the fiancée should be covered with lace and jewels, and the -nuptial couch, borne by four golden and marble fairies, should have a -canopy of precious stones and sheets of satin.</p> - -<p>Brothers, brothers, do not scold me, for I wish to be wise. I shall love -my garret and think no more of my palaces. Oh! how fresh and passionate -life would be in them!</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER III</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_YOUNG_HARVEST-GIRL">THE YOUNG HARVEST-GIRL</a></h4> - - -<p>I toil and hope. I pass the days seated at my little table, putting -aside my pen for long hours to caress some ideal blonde whom the ink -would soil. Then, I resume my work, decking my heroines with the rays of -my dreams. I forget the snow and the empty closet. I live I know not -where, perhaps in a cloud, perhaps amid the down of an abandoned nest. -When I write a phrase sprucely and coquettishly draped, I imagine I see -angels and hawthorns in bloom.</p> - -<p>I have the holy gayety of toil. Ah! how foolish I was to be sad, and how -deceived I was in thinking myself poor and alone! Yesterday my chamber -was hideous; now it smiles upon me. I feel around me friends whom I -cannot see, but who are legion and who all put out their hands to me. So -great is their number that they hide from me the walls of my den.</p> - -<p>Poor little table, when Despair shall touch me with her wing, I will -always seat myself before you and bend over the white paper on which my -dream fixes itself only after having given me a smile.</p> - -<p>Alas! I must have, nevertheless, a shade of reality. I surprise myself -sometimes uneasy, wishing for a joy that I cannot shape. Then, I hear -something like a complaint from my heart: it tells me that it is always -cold, always famished, and that a mad dream can neither warm nor satisfy -it. I wish to content it. I will go out to-morrow, no longer isolating -myself in myself, but gazing at the windows, telling it to make its -choice from among the beautiful ladies. Then, from time to time, I will -take it back beneath the chosen balcony. It will carry away from it a -glance to feed on, and, for a week, will no longer feel the winter. When -again it shall cry famine, a new smile shall appease it.</p> - -<p>Brothers, have you never imagined that, on a certain autumn evening, you -met amid the grain fields a brunette of sixteen? She smiled upon you as -she flitted by, then was lost among the wheat heads. That night you -dreamed of her, and, on the morrow, at the same hour, took the path from -the town. The dear vision passed, smiled again, leaving you a new dream -for your next sleep. Months, years elapsed. Every day your famished -heart was satisfied with a smile and never desired more. An entire -lifetime would not be long enough for you to exhaust the glance of the -young harvest-girl.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER IV</h4> - -<h4><a id="TEMPTATION">TEMPTATION</a></h4> - - -<p>Last evening, I had a bright fire on the hearth. I was rich enough to -have two candles, and had lighted them both, regardless of the morrow.</p> - -<p>I surprised myself singing, as I prepared for a night of toil. The -mansarde laughed to find itself warm and luminous.</p> - -<p>As I sat down, I heard on the stairway the sound of voices and hurried -steps. Doors opened and shut. Then, amid the silence that ensued, -stifled cries came up to me. I sprang to my feet, vaguely disturbed, and -listened. The noise ceased. I was about to resume my chair, when some -one ran up-stairs and called out to me that a woman, my neighbor, had a -nervous attack. My help was asked. I held the door open, but saw only -the dark and gloomy stairway.</p> - -<p>I put on a warmer coat and went down, forgetting even to take one of my -candles. On the floor below I stopped, not knowing what room to enter. I -did not hear a sound; I was surrounded by thick darkness. At last I saw -a thin thread of light through a half open door. I gave the door a push.</p> - -<p>The chamber was the sister of mine: large, irregular and out of repair. -But, as I had left my mansarde in a flood of flame and brightness, the -gloom and cold of this place filled my heart with pity and sadness. Damp -air struck against my face; a miserable candle, burning on one corner of -the mantelpiece, flickered in the blast from the stairway, without -permitting me at first to see the objects before me.</p> - -<p>I had paused upon the threshold. Finally I distinguished the bed: the -sheets, thrown off and twisted, had slipped to the floor; scattered -garments lay about on the coverlet.</p> - -<p>In the midst of these rags was stretched out a vague, white form. I -should have thought I saw a corpse, if the candle had not given me -occasional glimpses of a hand hanging out of the bed and agitated by -rapid convulsions.</p> - -<p>By the pillow was an old woman. Her unfastened gray hair fell in stiff -locks over her forehead, her hastily put on dress showed her yellow and -wasted arms. She had her back towards me, was holding the head and hid -from me the face of the woman on the bed.</p> - -<p>The quivering body, watched over by this horrible old woman, gave me a -sudden feeling of disgust and fright. The motionlessness of their -countenances gave them fantastic dimensions, their silence made one -almost doubt that they were alive. I thought for an instant that I was -witnessing one of those terrible scenes of the witches' Sabbath, when -the sorceresses suck the blood of young girls, and, throwing them -ghastly and wrinkled into the arms of Death, rob them of their youth and -freshness.</p> - -<p>The noise I made at the door caused the old woman to turn her head. She -let the body she was supporting fall heavily; then, she advanced towards -me.</p> - -<p>"Ah! Monsieur," she said, "I thank you for having come. Old people fear -the winter nights, and this room is so cold that, perhaps, I would not -have been able to leave it in the morning. I have been watching a long -while, and when one eats but little, one needs more sleep. Besides, the -crisis is over. You will have to wait only until this girl awakens. Good -night, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>The old woman went away, and I was alone. I shut the door, and, taking -up the candle, approached the bed. The girl extended upon it seemed -about twenty-four. She was plunged in that deep stupor which follows -nervous convulsions. Her feet were drawn up beneath her; her arms, still -stiff and wide open, were thrown over the edges of the bed. I could not -at first judge of her beauty: her head, thrown backward, was concealed -by her flood of hair.</p> - -<p>I took her in my arms, straightened out her limbs and placed her upon -her back. Then I drew away the hair from her face. She was ugly: her -closed eyes had no lashes, her temples were low and retiring, her mouth -large and sunken. Premature old age had effaced the outlines of her -features and left upon her whole countenance an imprint of lassitude and -avidity.</p> - -<p>She was sleeping. I heaped over her feet all the rags within my reach; -then I raised her head by putting under it more old clothes which I had -found and rolled into a bundle. My science being limited to these cares, -I decided to wait until she awoke. I feared lest she might have another -attack, fall and wound herself.</p> - -<p>I examined the garret. On entering I had noticed a strong perfume of -musk, which, mingling with the sharp odor of the dampness, struck -strangely upon the sense of smell. Upon the mantelpiece was a row of -vials and little pots, still greasy with aromatic oils. Above hung a -cracked looking-glass, with the amalgam at the back gone in broad -patches. In addition, the walls were bare. Many things lay about on the -floor: satin shoes down at the heel, dirty linen, faded ribbons, rags of -lace. As I went along, scattering the tatters with my foot to make a -passage for myself, I came across a handsome dress of blue silk, -ornamented with bows of velvet. It had been thrown into a corner among -the other gewgaws, rolled up, rumpled, stained yet with the mud of the -town. I raised it and hung it on a nail.</p> - -<p>Weary and finding no chair, I sat down on the foot of the bed. I began -to understand where I was. The girl still slept; she was now plainly -visible. I thought I had made a mistake in declaring her ugly, and -looked at her with greater attention. An easier sleep had brought to her -lips a vague smile; her features were relaxed; her past suffering had -given a sort of gentle and sad beauty to her ugliness. She reposed, -sorrowful and resigned. Her soul seemed to have taken advantage of her -rest to mount to her face.</p> - -<p>I was amid unclean want, a strange assemblage of blue silk and filth. -This garret was the infamous den of famished luxury selling its satiety; -this girl was one of those old wretches of twenty, no longer having -anything of the woman about them but the fatal stamp of their sex, -vending that mortality which Heaven has left them in withdrawing their -souls. How could so much slime be in a single being, so many stains on a -single heart! God roughly smites His creature when He allows her to tear -her robe of innocence and assume the wretched garments of vice! In our -visions of love, we never dreamed that some night we should find a -miserable bed in a garret full of gloom, and, upon that bed, a girl of -the gutter, asleep and half-clad!</p> - -<p>The unfortunate creature was evidently under the caressing wing of a -dream; gentle and regular breath escaped from her lips; over her -languidly closed eyelids at times ran a faint quiver. I leaned upon the -bed; my glance could not loosen itself from that pale face, beautiful -with a strange beauty. I know not what fascination was exerted upon me -by this peaceful sleep of vice, these faded features, stamped in their -repose with an angelic mildness. I said to myself that this slumbering -girl was receiving a visit from her sixteenth year, and that thus purity -itself was before me. This thought filled my mind; if any other mingled -with it I did not know it. I no longer felt the cold, but I trembled. My -veins throbbed with an unknown fever. My reverie rambled on, more uneasy -and more sorrowful.</p> - -<p>The girl uttered a sigh, and turned over. She threw back the coverlet, -exposing her bust.</p> - -<p>My dreams had shown me only chaste statues, always veiled by dazzling -brightness. I had seen but the arms of washerwomen, gayly beating their -linen. Sometimes, perhaps, my glance had strayed over the white and -delicate neck of a danseuse, when, getting the better of my heart, I had -felt my thoughts troubled by the sweep of her flaxen tresses.</p> - -<p>This roughly uncovered bust made me blush, and filled me with such -anguish that I was on the point of weeping. I was ashamed for the young -woman's sake; I felt my purity departing as I gazed at her. -Nevertheless, I could not turn away my eyes; I followed the gentle -undulations of her breast, and was dazzled by its whiteness. My senses -were still silent; my mind alone was intoxicated. My impressions had a -charm so strange that I can now compare them only to the holy horror -that shook me the day I beheld a corpse for the first time. My -imagination had represented death to me. But when I saw that bluish -face, that black and open mouth, when destruction showed itself in its -energetic grandeur, I could not withdraw my glances from the dead, for I -was quivering with a sorrowful delight, I was attracted by I know not -what glimmer of reality.</p> - -<p>Thus, the first bare throat held me palpitating with an emotion I am -unable to define.</p> - -<p>And it was a bust bruised by harsh caresses upon which my eyes rested! -Ah! when I now think of it, of that frightened ecstasy which restrained -my breath, when I again see myself bent over that infamous couch, uneasy -and blushing, I ask myself with anguish who will restore to me that -first glance that I may bend and blush over the couch of purity! I ask -myself who will restore to me the instant when the veil falls from the -shoulders of the bride, when the bridegroom comprehends that the -choicest gift of Heaven is his and bows his head, dazzled by the -knowledge! I have drunk to intoxication from a perilous cup; I shall -never realize what splendor a bride has in the eyes of a young and -innocent husband.</p> - -<p>The girl awoke and smiled, without seeming astonished to find me near -her. Her smile was vague, as if addressed to a crowd, as if weary of -being upon her lips. She did not speak, but put out her arms towards me.</p> - -<p>In the morning, when I returned to my garret, I found my candles -entirely burned away and the fire on my hearth long dead. The chamber -was cold and sombre: I no longer had either flame or brightness.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER V</h4> - -<h4><a id="PAQUERETTE">PAQUERETTE</a></h4> - - -<p>Brothers, where is the sweetheart, queen of the lakes and clouds, or the -harvest brunette whose glance is so deep as to suffice for a life of -love?</p> - -<p>Well, all is over: I have belied my youth; I am the fiancé of vice. The -remembrance of my first hour of love is closely bound to that of an -infamous den, of a couch over which strange kisses float. When, during -the May nights, I shall evoke my fiancée, I shall see arise a -half-clad, cynical girl, awaking and putting out her arms towards me. -This pale and stained spectre will be a participant in all my -love affairs. It will stand between my mouth and that of my bride, -claiming the kisses of my soiled lips. When I am asleep, it will visit -me in a horrible dream. When my sweetheart shall whisper in my ear some -delicious word, it will be there to tell me that it was the first to -talk thus to me. When I shall lean my head upon the shoulder of my -bride, it will present to me its shoulder on which I once reposed. Thus -it will ever freeze my heart with the accursed remembrance of our -betrothal.</p> - -<p>Yes, that night has sufficed to deprive me of supreme peace. My first -kiss has not awakened a soul. I have not felt the holy ignorance of pure -caresses, my timid lips have not found lips as timid as themselves. I -shall never experience that simple playfulness, that innocence of a -couple who know not the ways of the world. They tremble, embrace, and -weep for joy. But, as they kiss each other, hesitatingly, they realize -that they are one, that their hearts beat in unison, and that God has -joined them for the voyage of life.</p> - -<p>Then, when this knowledge has come, when they have in a kiss divined the -law of the Omnipotent, what must be their delight to owe to each other -this revelation, this infinitude of joy! They have participated in a -common blessing: they have put on their white robes and now are clad -like the cherubim. Mingling their very breath, smiling with the same -smile, they repose in their union. Holy hour, in which hearts beat more -freely, finding a heaven to which they can ascend. Sainted hour, in -which ignorant love suddenly learns the full measure of its strength, -believes itself the master of the universe and is intoxicated with its -first flight. Brothers, may God keep for you that hour, the remembrance -of which perfumes one's entire life. It will never be mine.</p> - -<p>Such is fate. It is rare that two pure hearts meet; nearly always one -heart of any twain can no longer give its ecstasy in its flower. To-day, -most young men of twenty like ourselves, who are eager to love, lacking -the power to force the bars and bolts of honest houses, hasten to the -wide open doors of boudoirs easier of access. When we ask upon what -shoulders we shall lean our heads, fathers hide their daughters and push -us into the gloom of the lanes. They cry out to us to respect their -children, who will some day be our wives; they prefer for them, instead -of our first caresses, those learned elsewhere.</p> - -<p>Hence how few keep their early love for their brides, how few, in the -desert of their youth, refuse the companions into whose society they are -driven by the singular behavior of parents! Some, foolish and wicked -lads, glory in their shame; they drag their ignoble flirtations before -the public eye. Others, when the soul awakes at the first summons of the -sweetheart, are filled with overwhelming sorrow on vainly interrogating -the horizon and at not knowing where to find the rightful claimant of -the heart. They go straight ahead, staring at the balconies, leaning -towards each youthful visage: the balconies are deserted, the youthful -visages remain veiled. Some night an arm is slipped within their own, a -voice makes them start. Already weary and despairing, unable to discover -the angel of love, they follow the spectre.</p> - -<p>Brothers, I do not wish to make an excuse for my fault, but let me say -that it is strange to cloister purity and permit dissipation to walk in -the glare of the sun with uplifted head. Let me deplore this distrust of -love, which creates a solitude around the lover, and this guarding of -virtue by vice, which causes a young man to encounter shame before -reaching the door of innocence. He who yields to temptation may well say -to his bride: "I am unworthy of you, but why did you not come to my -rescue? Why did you not meet me in the flowery fields, before all those -by-ways, each nook of which has its priestess? Why were you not the -first to greet my eyes, thus sparing yourself in sparing me?"</p> - -<p>On returning home this evening, I found upon the stairway the old woman -of the other night. She was toilsomely ascending in front of me, aiding -herself with the cord and placing both feet on each step. She turned -around.</p> - -<p>"Well, Monsieur, is your patient better?" she asked. "She no longer -shivers, I imagine, and you yourself do not seem to have suffered from -the cold. Ah! I well knew that a young man could take better care of a -handsome girl than an old woman."</p> - -<p>She laughed, showing her empty mouth. The politeness of this aged wretch -who had led a gay life made me blush.</p> - -<p>"You need not color so!" she added. "I have seen others as proud as -yourself enter without shame and depart singing. Youth loves to laugh, -and girls who play the wise one are fools. Ah! if I were only fifteen -again!"</p> - -<p>I had reached my door. She caught me by the arm as I was about to go in, -and continued:</p> - -<p>"I had flaxen hair then, and my cheeks were so fresh that my admirers -nicknamed me Pâquerette. If you had seen me, you would have been -astonished. I lived on the ground floor, in a nest of silk and gold. -Now, I lodge under the eaves. I have only to descend to go to the -cemetery. Ah! your friend Laurence is happy: she is as yet but in the -fourth story."</p> - -<p>So the girl was called Laurence. I had been ignorant even of her -name.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER VI</h4> - -<h4><a id="DESPAIR">DESPAIR</a></h4> - - -<p>I resumed my work, but with repugnance, and was weary from the -commencement. Now that I had lifted a corner of the veil, I had neither -the courage to let it fall again nor the boldness to draw it away -altogether. When I seated myself at my table, I leaned sadly on my -elbows, letting the pen slip from my fingers and muttering: "What is the -good!" My intelligence seemed worn out; I dare not re-read the few -phrases I had written; I no longer felt that joy of the poet, whom a -happy rhyme fills with unreasoning and childish laughter. Scold me, -brothers, for limping verses are shorn of their power to keep me awake.</p> - -<p>My slim resources are diminishing. I can calculate the hour when -everything will be gone. I eat my bread, being almost in haste to finish -it that I may no longer see it melt away at each meal. I am surrendering -to want like a coward; the struggle for food terrifies me.</p> - -<p>Ah! how they lie who assert that poverty is the mother of talent! Let -them count those whom despair has made illustrious and those whom it has -slowly debased. When tears are caused by a heart wound, the wrinkles -they dig are beautiful and noble; but when hunger makes them flow, when -every night a baseness or a brutish task drys them, they furrow the face -frightfully, without imparting to it the sad serenity of age.</p> - -<p>No; since I am so poor that I may, perhaps, die to-morrow, I cannot -work. When the closet was full I had great courage. I felt the strength -to gain my bread. Now it is nearly empty and I am given over to -lassitude. It would be easier for me to endure hunger than to make the -smallest effort.</p> - -<p>I well know that I am cowardly and false to my vows. I know that I have -not the right already to take refuge in defeat. I am only twenty: I -cannot be weary of a world of which I am ignorant. Yesterday, I dreamed -of it as sweet and good. Is it a new dream which makes me form a bad -opinion of it to-day?</p> - -<p>Oh! brothers, my first step has been unfortunate: I am afraid to -advance. I will exhaust my suffering, shed all my tears, and my smiles -will return. I will work with a gayer heart to-morrow.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER VII</h4> - -<h4><a id="LAURENCE">LAURENCE</a></h4> - - -<p>Yesterday afternoon, I went to bed at five o'clock, in broad day, -forgetting the key in the lock.</p> - -<p>About midnight, as I saw in a dream a young blonde stretch out her arms -to me, a sound which I had heard in my sleep made me suddenly open my -eyes. My lamp was lighted. A woman, standing at the foot of the bed, was -looking at me. Her back was towards the light, and I thought, in the -confusion of awaking, that God had taken pity on me and transformed one -of my visions into reality.</p> - -<p>The woman approached. I recognized Laurence—Laurence with bare -head, wearing her handsome blue silk dress. Her uncovered shoulders were -purple with cold. Laurence had come to me.</p> - -<p>"My friend," said she, "I owe the landlord forty francs. He has just -refused me the key of my door and told me to seek shelter elsewhere. It -was too late to go out, and I thought of you."</p> - -<p>She sat down to unlace her boots. I did not understand, I did not wish -to understand. It seemed to me that this girl had stolen into my garret -to destroy me. The lamp, lighted I knew not how, the scantily-clad woman -in the middle of the icy chamber, terrified me. I was tempted to shout -for help.</p> - -<p>"We will live as you like," continued Laurence. "I am not -embarrassing."</p> - -<p>I sat up to awaken myself completely. I began to understand, and what I -understood was horrible. I restrained a harsh word which had arisen to -my lips: abuse is repugnant to me, and I suffer when I insult any one.</p> - -<p>"Madame," I simply said, "I am poor."</p> - -<p>Laurence burst into a torrent of laughter.</p> - -<p>"You call me Madame!" she resumed. "Are you angry? What have I done to -you? I know you are poor—you showed me too much respect to be rich. -Well, we will be poor."</p> - -<p>"I can give you neither gewgaws nor enticing meals."</p> - -<p>"Do you think that they have often been given to me? People are not so -kind to poor girls! We roll in carriages only in novels. For one who -finds a dress ten die of hunger."</p> - -<p>"I eat but two very meagre meals a day; together, we could only have -one, and that of bread dried that we might consume less of it, with -simply water to drink."</p> - -<p>"You wish to frighten me. Have you not a father, in Paris or elsewhere, -who sends you books and clothes which you afterwards sell? We will eat -your hard bread and go to the ball to drink champagne."</p> - -<p>"No, I am alone in the world; I work for my living. I cannot associate -you with my poverty."</p> - -<p>Laurence stopped unlacing her boots. She sat still and thought.</p> - -<p>"Listen," she said, suddenly: "I am without bread and without a shelter. -You are young; you cannot conceive the extent of our perpetual distress, -even amid luxury and gayety. The street is our sole domicile; elsewhere -we are not at home. We are shown the door and we depart. Do you wish me -to depart? You have the right to drive me away, and I the resource of -going to sleep under some bridge."</p> - -<p>"I do not wish to drive you away. I tell you only that you have -ill-chosen your refuge. You can never accustom yourself to my sadness -and want."</p> - -<p>"Chosen! Ah! you think that we are permitted to choose! You may not -believe it, but I came here because I knew not where else to go. I -climbed the stairs furtively to pass the night upon a step. I leaned -against your door, and then it was that I thought of you. You have only -hard bread; I have not eaten anything since yesterday, and my smile is -so faint that it will not bring me a meal to-morrow. You see that I can -remain. I had just as well die here as in the street—besides, it is -less cold."</p> - -<p>"No; look further; you will find some one richer and gayer than I. Later -you will thank me for not having received you."</p> - -<p>Laurence arose. Her countenance had assumed an indescribable expression -of bitterness and irony. Her look was not supplicating: it was insolent -and cynical. She crossed her arms and stared me in the face.</p> - -<p>"Come," said she, "be frank: you do not want me. I am too ugly, too -miserable. I displease you, and you wish to get rid of me. You have no -money, and yet you want a pretty sweetheart. I was a fool not to think -of that. I ought to have said to myself that I was not worth even the -attention of poverty and that I must descend a round of the ladder. I am -thirsty, but I can drink from the gutters; I am hungry, but theft, -perhaps, will afford me nourishment. I thank you for your advice."</p> - -<p>She gathered her dress about her and walked towards the door.</p> - -<p>"Do you know," hissed she, "that we wretches are better than you honest -folks?"</p> - -<p>And she talked for a long while in a sharp voice. I cannot reproduce the -brutal force of her language. She said that she was the slave of our -caprices, that she laughed when we told her to laugh, and that we turned -our backs upon her later when we met her. Who forced us to seek her, who -pushed us into her company in the darkness, that we should show so much -contempt for her in broad day? I had once paid her a visit—why did I -not want to see her now? Had I forgotten that she was a woman and as -such was entitled even to my protection? The weak should always be -protected and sheltered by the strong. Now that she was famished, I took -a cruel delight in telling her that I had nothing for her to eat. Now -that she was houseless, I gloried in telling her that I refused to give -her a refuge. Because she was miserable I deemed it incumbent upon me to -make her more miserable still, for the truth was that I could do so with -impunity. I was afraid of her. She recalled the past too vividly. I -wished to deny her very existence. I was, indeed, a man to be admired, a -man with a noble, generous heart.</p> - -<p>She was silent for an instant. Then she resumed, with more energy:</p> - -<p>"You came to me and I received you as my husband. Now you deny that I -have any rights. You lie. I have all the rights of a wife. You gave them -to me, and you cannot undo what is done. You are mine and I am yours. -You repudiate me and you are a coward!"</p> - -<p>Laurence had opened the door. She hurled insults at me as she stood upon -the threshold, pale with anger. I leaped from the bed and caught her by -the arm.</p> - -<p>"You can remain," I said. "You are like ice. Lie down, cover yourself -up, and get warm."</p> - -<p>Will you believe, brothers, that I was weeping! It was not pity. The -tears flowed of themselves down my cheeks, though I felt only an immense -and vague sadness.</p> - -<p>The girl's words had made a deep impression on me. Her argument, the -force of which, doubtless, escaped her, seemed to me just and true. I -realized so perfectly that she had her rights, that I could not have -driven her away without thinking myself the incarnation of injustice. -She was a woman still, and I could not treat her like a lifeless object -which contempt and abandonment cannot affect. Setting all else aside, -humanity demanded that I should help her. The pure and the guilty are -both liable to come to us, some winter night, to tell us that they are -cold, that they are hungry, that they have need of us. Alas! we often -receive the one and thrust the other into the gloomy and inhospitable -street!</p> - -<p>This is because we have the cowardice of our vices. It is because we -would be terrified to have beside us a living remembrance and remorse. -It pleases us to live honored, and when we blush at the call of some -wretched creature, we deny her to explain our blushes by her impudence. -And we do this without deeming ourselves culpable, without asking -ourselves what justice this creature demands. Custom has made us -consider her a disgrace, and we are astonished that this disgrace speaks -and calls itself a woman.</p> - -<p>My friends, I trembled before the truth. I understood and I wept. The -question seemed to me simple, clear and self-evident. Laurence's words -had frightened without disgusting me. I had not dreamed of her coming; -but she came and I received her. I cannot, brothers, explain to you what -were my feelings. My mind of twenty years had accepted in their absolute -sense those words which admitted of no hesitation: "You are mine and I -am yours!"</p> - -<p>The next morning, when I awoke and found Laurence in my room, I felt my -heart ready to burst with anguish. The scene of the past night was -effaced. I no longer heard the true and rude words which had made me -receive the girl. The brutal fact alone remained.</p> - -<p>I looked at her as she slept. I saw her for the first time by daylight, -without her face having the strange beauty of suffering or despair. When -she thus appeared to me, ugly and prematurely old, plunged into a heavy, -brutish slumber, I trembled before that faded and common countenance -which I did not recognize. I could not comprehend how it was that I had -awakened in such company. I seemed as if I had come out of a dream, and -the reality proved so horrible that I had forgotten what had made me -accept it.</p> - -<p>But what difference did it make whether it was pity, justice or mercy. -The girl was there. Ah! brothers, can I shed enough tears, and will you -have sufficient courage to dry them!</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER VIII</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_MISSION_FROM_ON_HIGH">A MISSION FROM ON HIGH</a></h4> - - -<p>Yes, I think as you do; I wish still to hope, I wish to make this fatal -union a source of noble aspirations.</p> - -<p>Formerly, when our thoughts drifted towards such unfortunate creatures -as Laurence, we felt only mercy and pity for them. We discerned the holy -task of redemption. We asked God to send us a dead soul, that we might, -by kindly and gentle ways, restore it to youth and purity.</p> - -<p>The faith of our sixteenth year, we thought, ought to make sinners -believe and bow the head.</p> - -<p>Then, we were Didier, pardoning Marion and acknowledging her as a wife -at the foot of the scaffold. We lifted the sinner to the height of our -tenderness.</p> - -<p>Well, now I can be Didier. Marion, as sinful as the day he pardoned her, -is here. She needs the white robe of purity, a hand to guide her -wavering steps aright, to steady her in the narrow and difficult path -which leads to the happiness of innocence. Her pale face requires a pure -atmosphere to restore to it the glow of youthful health. What we wished -for in our sainted hallucinations I have found without searching for it.</p> - -<p>Since Laurence has come to me, I wish to erase all the evil instincts of -her heart, to give it the healthful tone and freshness of mine. I will -be a priest for this poor wretch: I will lift her up, console and pardon -her.</p> - -<p>Who knows, brothers, but that this is a supreme trial, an appointed -task, that God has sent me! Perhaps, it is His wish, in charging me with -a soul, to develop all the latent strength of mine. Perhaps, He has -reserved for me the office of the strong, and does not fear to entrust -me with the reformation of a human being. I will be worthy of His -choice.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER IX</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_COURSE_OF_REFORMATION">THE COURSE OF REFORMATION</a></h4> - - -<p>I desire to make Laurence forget what she is, to deceive her in regard -to herself by the genuine friendship I show her. I speak to her only -with gentleness; my words are always grave and carefully chosen.</p> - -<p>Whenever she utters any of the slang of the street, I feign not to hear -her. I inculcate the lessons of innocence, and treat her as a sister who -has need of instruction. I oppose a calm and thoughtful life to her -noisy life of the past. I pretend to ignore that this existence is not -hers; I endeavor to be so natural in the imposition that, in the end, -she will doubt that she ever lived otherwise.</p> - -<p>Yesterday, in the street, a man insulted her. She was about to return -insult for insult. I did not give her time. I approached the man, who -was intoxicated, and caught him by the wrist, commanding him to respect -my wife.</p> - -<p>"Your wife!" cried he, ironically. "I know all about such wives!"</p> - -<p>Then, I shook him violently, repeating my order in a sterner tone. He -stammered out something and slunk away, begging pardon. Laurence -silently resumed my arm, apparently confused by the title of wife which -I had bestowed upon her.</p> - -<p>I well know that too much austerity is not advisable. I do not hope for -a sudden return to good; I wish to manage a skilful and gradual -transition, which shall prevent her poor, sick eyes from being wounded -by the light. There lies the whole difficulty of the task.</p> - -<p>I have noticed that such girls as Laurence, women before their time, -long keep the thoughtlessness and childishness of the infant. They are -wearied and would yet willingly play with the doll. A trifle amuses -them, makes them burst out laughing; they find again, unconsciously, the -astonishment and caressing babble of little girls of five. I have taken -advantage of this observation. I give Laurence gewgaws which make us -great friends for an hour.</p> - -<p>You cannot imagine the deep emotion this strange education has awakened -in me. When I think I have made Laurence's dead heart beat, I am tempted -to kneel and thank God. Without doubt, I exaggerate the sanctity of my -mission. I say to myself that the love of a pure creature would sanctify -me less than the devotion this poor girl will some day feel for me.</p> - -<p>That day is yet afar off. My companion is embarrassed by my respect for -her. She, whom insults do not affect, colors to the roots of her hair -when I talk to her in a brotherly fashion, intent upon my good work. -Sometimes, I see her hesitate before answering me, apparently doubting -that it was to her I had spoken. She is amazed at not being reproached, -and seems ill at ease because of my delicate attentions. The mask of -innocence, which I have forced her to put on, worries her: she knows not -how to bear esteem. Often I surprise a smile on her lips; she must think -that I am mocking her, and this smile seems to ask me to kindly stop -joking.</p> - -<p>In the evening, at bed-time, she puts out the candle before undressing; -she draws over her the corners of the coverings, and takes advantage of -my sleep to leap from her couch in the morning. When she talks, she -selects her words; following my example, she avoids being familiar with -me.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell why these precautions disturb me: I see in them more of -constraint than true repentance. I feel that she acts and talks as she -does out of fear of displeasing me, but that, so far as she herself is -concerned, she is indifferent about her behavior and would as soon talk -the language of the markets as not. She cannot have acquired so quickly -a knowledge of her errors. I tell you, brothers, Laurence is afraid of -me: such is the result of a week of respect.</p> - -<p>As soon as she rises, she makes a grand toilet; she runs to the -looking-glass and forgets herself there for an hour. She is in haste to -repair the disorders of the night. Her thin locks are let fall, showing -bare places on her head; her cheeks, from which the rouge has been -rubbed, are pale and faded. She knows that she no longer has her -borrowed youth, and is afraid that I will notice its absence should I -turn my gaze upon her. The poor girl, who has lived beneath a coat of -paint, fears lest I should drive her away when I see her without it. She -combs her hair laboriously, puffing out her locks and skilfully -concealing the vacant spots left by those which are gone; she blackens -her eyelashes, whitens her shoulders and reddens her lips. Meanwhile I -keep my back turned towards her, feigning to see nothing of all this. -Then, when she has painted her face and thinks herself sufficiently -young and beautiful, she comes to me smilingly. She is calmer, feeling -certain that she is safe. She offers herself fearlessly to my eyes. She -forgets that I cannot be deceived by the pretty colors she has put on, -and seems to think that when I see them I am satisfied.</p> - -<p>I told her in plain words that I preferred fresh water to pomades and -cosmetics. I even went so far as to add that I liked her premature -wrinkles better than the greasy and shining mask she put on her -countenance every day. She did not understand. She blushed, thinking -that I was reproaching her with her ugliness, and since then she has -made increased efforts not to look like herself.</p> - -<p>Thus combed and rouged, wrapped in her blue silk dress, she drags -herself from chair to chair, careless and wearied. Not daring to stir -for fear of deranging a fold of her skirt, she generally remains seated -the rest of the day. She crosses her hands, and, with her eyes open, -falls into a sort of waking sleep. Sometimes, she rises and walks to the -window; there she leans her forehead against the icy panes and resumes -her doze.</p> - -<p>She was active enough before she became my companion. The agitated life -she then led gave her a feverish ardor; her idleness was noisy and -joyfully accepted the rude tasks set for it. Now, sharing my calm and -studious existence, she has all the laziness of peace without its gentle -and regular work.</p> - -<p>I must, before everything else, cure her of carelessness and weariness. -I plainly see that she regrets the strife, confusion and excitement of -her early days, but she is by nature so devoid of energy that she is -afraid to regret them openly. I have told you, brothers, that she fears -me. She does not fear my anger, but she stands in terror of the unknown -being whom she cannot comprehend. She vaguely seizes my wishes and bows -before them, ignorant of their true meaning. Hence she is circumspect in -her conduct without being repentant, and remains serious and tranquil -without ceasing to be idle and lazy. Hence also she thinks that she -cannot refuse my esteem, and, though she is sometimes amazed at it, she -never seeks to be worthy of it.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER X</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_EMBROIDERY_STRIP">THE EMBROIDERY STRIP</a></h4> - - -<p>I suffered to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought that -toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at the -accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While the -needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers gives -to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her work has I -know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and makes haste. -Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the workwoman of to-day has -found again the active serenity of the innocent. Speak to her heart, it -will answer you.</p> - -<p>Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she -should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed to me -that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or other and -she mingling her dream with the thread of her embroidery, would unite us -in a gentler and deeper friendship. She accepted this idea of work as -she accepts each one of my wishes, with a passive obedience, a singular -mixture of indifference and resignation.</p> - -<p>After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing to -trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until -midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning. I -watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad expression -had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and regularly, told me -that her body alone was working, her mind taking no part in the task.</p> - -<p>The old lady pronounced the muslin badly embroidered; she declared to me -that it was the work of a poor embroiderer, and that I never could find -any one who would be satisfied with such long stitches and so little -grace. I had feared this. The poor girl, having possessed jewels at -fifteen, could not have had much experience with the needle. -Fortunately, I sought in her work the slow cure of her heart, and not -the skill of her fingers or the profit of her toil. In order not to give -her back to idleness by imposing upon her a task myself, I resolved to -hide from her the discouraging refusal of the old lady to employ her -further.</p> - -<p>I bought a stamped embroidery strip as I walked home. On entering, I -told her that her work had given satisfaction and that she had been -entrusted with more. Then, I handed her the few sous I had left, telling -her I had received them as her pay. I knew that on the morrow, perhaps, -I could not repeat this, and I regretted it. I desired to make her love -the savor of bread honestly earned.</p> - -<p>Laurence took the money without disturbing herself about the evening -meal. She hastened away to purchase a row of velvet-covered buttons for -her blue dress, which was already torn and stained. Never had I seen her -so active; a quarter of an hour sufficed for her to sew on these -buttons. She made a grand toilet, then admired herself. When night came -on, she was still walking back and forth in the chamber, looking at her -new buttons. As I lighted the lamp, I told her gently to go to work. She -did not seem to understand me. I repeated my words, and then she sat -down roughly, angrily seizing the embroidery strip. My heart was filled -with sorrow.</p> - -<p>"Laurence," said I, "it is not my wish to force you to work; put aside -your needle, if you feel inclined to do nothing. I have not the right to -impose a task upon you. You are free to be good or bad."</p> - -<p>"No, no," she replied, "you want me to toil like a slave. I understand -that I must pay for my food and my share of the rent. I might even pay -your part, too, by working later at night."</p> - -<p>"Laurence!" cried I, sadly. "Go, poor girl, and be happy. You shall not -touch a needle again. Give me that embroidery strip."</p> - -<p>And I threw the muslin into the fire. I saw it burn, regretting my -hastiness. I had been unable to control my anguish, and was overwhelmed -at the thought that Laurence was escaping from me. I had restored her to -idleness. I trembled as I thought of the outrageous accusation she had -made against me—that I wanted the money she might earn; I realized -tha it was no longer possible for me to advise her to work. So, it was all -over; a single outburst on her part had sufficed to make me withdraw -from her the means of redemption.</p> - -<p>Laurence was not in the least surprised at my sudden rage. I have told -you that she more readily accepts anger than affection. She even smiled -at conquering what she called my weariness. Then she crossed her hands, -happy in her idleness.</p> - -<p>As I stirred the warm cinders on the hearth, I sadly asked myself what -word, what sentiment, could awaken her stupefied soul! I was -horror-stricken that I had not yet been able to restore to her the -innocence of her childhood. I would have preferred her ignorant, eager -to know. I was filled with despair at this sad indifference, this night -satisfied with its gloom, and so dense that it refused to admit the -light. Vainly had I knocked at Laurence's heart: no answer had been -returned to me. I was tempted to believe that death had passed over it -and had dried up all its fibres. But a single quiver and I should have -thought the girl saved.</p> - -<p>But what was to be done with this nothingness, this desolated creature, -this insensible marble which affection could not animate? Statues -frighten me: they stare without seeing and have no intellect to -understand.</p> - -<p>Then, I said to myself that, perhaps, it was my fault if I could not -make Laurence understand me. Didier loved Marion; he did not seek to save -a soul—he simply loved—and yet he effected the miracle which my -reason and kindness had sought in vain to accomplish. A heart awakes -only at the voice of a heart. Love is the holy baptism which of itself, -without the faith, without the science of good, remits every sin.</p> - -<p>I do not love Laurence. That cold and wearied girl causes me only -disgust.</p> - -<p>Her voice and gestures seem insults in my eyes; her entire form wounds -me. Deprived of every delicacy of mind, she makes the kindest word -odious, and thrusts an outrage into each one of her smiles. In her -everything becomes bad.</p> - -<p>I strove to feign tenderness and approached her. She sat motionless, -leaning towards the hearth, and allowed me to take her cold and inert -hands. Then, I drew her near me. She lifted her head, questioning me -with a look. Beneath that look I recoiled, repulsing her.</p> - -<p>"Well, what do you want?" she asked.</p> - -<p>What did I want! My lips were open to cry to her: "I want you to take -off that wretched silk dress and put on honest calico. I want you to -cease pining after your past career. I want you to listen to me and -understand what I say. I want you to turn your thoughts towards -innocence and goodness. I want to make you a worthy woman."</p> - -<p>But, brothers, I did not say this. If I had loved her, I should without -doubt have spoken, and, perhaps, she would have understood me.</p> - - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XI</h4> - -<h4><a id="ON_THE_WAY_TO_THE_BALL">ON THE WAY TO THE BALL</a></h4> - - -<p>I think I have been lacking both in skill and prudence. I was in too -great haste; I overshot the mark, without asking Laurence if she -understood me. How can I, who am ignorant of life, teach its science? -What means do I know how to employ, except the systems, the rules of -conduct, dreamed of at sixteen, beautiful in theory, but absurd in -practice? Is it enough for me to love the good, to stretch towards an -ideal of virtue vague aspirations, the aim of which is itself uncertain? -When reality is before me, I know how little these desires take -practical shape, how powerless I am in the struggle it offers me. I -shall never know how either to bind or conquer it, ignorant as I am of -the way in which to seize it and unable even to avow to myself what -victory I demand. A voice cries out in me that I do not want the truth, -that I do not desire to change it, to transform what is evil in my sight -into good. Let the world which exists stand; I have the audacity to wish -to create a new land, without making use of the wrecks of the old. -Hence, having no solid foundation, the scaffolding of my dreams crumbles -at the slightest shock. I am only a useless thinker, a platonic lover of -the good nursed by vain reveries, whose power vanishes as soon as he -touches the earth.</p> - -<p>Brothers, it would be easier for me to give Laurence wings than to give -her a woman's heart.</p> - -<p>We are but grown up children. We do not know what to do with that -sublime reality, which comes to us from God and which we spoil at -pleasure by our dreams. We are so awkward in living, that life, for this -reason, becomes bad. Let us learn how to live and evil will disappear. -If I possessed the great art of the real, if I had any conception of a -human paradise, if I could distinguish the chimera from the possible, I -could talk and Laurence would understand me. I would know how to take -possession of her again and set her an example to follow. The delicate -science which revealed to me the causes of her errors would find a -remedy for each wound of her heart. But what can I do when my ignorance -erects a barrier between her and me? I am the dream, she is the reality. -We shall trudge on side by side without ever meeting, and, our journey -finished, she will not have understood me, I will not have comprehended -her.</p> - -<p>I have decided to retrace my steps, in order to take Laurence such as -she is and let her follow the road for which her human feet are fitted. -I have resolved to study life with her, to descend that we may rise -together. Since I am compelled to undertake this rough and disagreeable -task, it is on the lowest step that I desire to start.</p> - -<p>Would it not be a recompense great enough if I induced her to give me -all the love of which she is capable? Brothers, I have a well grounded -fear that our dreams are nothing but deceptions; I realize how weak and -puerile they are in the presence of a reality of which I am vaguely -conscious. There are days in which, further off than the sunlight and -the perfumes, further off than those dim visions which I cannot turn to -account, I catch a glimpse of the bold outlines of what is. And I -comprehend that this is life, action and truth, while, in the -surroundings which I have created for myself, move people strange to -man, vain shadows whose eyes do not see me, whose lips cannot speak to -me. The child can be pleased with these cold and mute friends; afraid of -life, it takes refuge in that which does not live. But we men should not -be satisfied with this eternal nothingness. Our arms are made for work.</p> - -<p>Last night, as I was out walking with Laurence, we met a herd of -maskers, packed into a carriage and going to the ball, intoxicated, in -disorder, making a great noise. It is January, the most terrible of all -the months. Poor Laurence was vastly moved by the cries of her kind. She -smiled upon them, and turned that she might see them as long as -possible. It was her former gayety which was passing by, her -carelessness, her mad life so sharp that she could not forget its biting -joys. She returned home sadder than ever and went to bed, sick of -silence and solitude.</p> - -<p>This morning, I sold some of my clothes and hired a costume for -Laurence. I announced to her that we would go to the ball in the -evening. She threw herself upon my neck; then, she took possession of -the costume and forgot me. She examined each ribbon, each spangle; -impatient to deck herself, she threw the soiled satin over her -shoulders, intoxicating herself with the rustle of the stuff. Sometimes -she turned, thanking me with a smile. I realized that she had never -before loved me so much, and I could scarcely keep my hands from -snatching the gewgaw which had brought me the esteem I had failed to -acquire with all my kindness.</p> - -<p>At last, I had made myself understood. I had ceased to be an unknown -being in her eyes, a frightful compound of austerity and weariness. I -was going to the ball like all the rest; like them, I hired costumes and -amused my friends. I was a charming fellow and, like everybody else, -loved buxom shoulders, cries and oaths. Ah! what joy! My wisdom was a -sham!</p> - -<p>Laurence felt herself in a country with which she was acquainted; she -was no longer afraid; she had resumed her freedom of manner and gave -vent to bursts of hearty laughter. Her familiar words, her easy -gestures, filled her with satisfaction. She was perfectly at home in her -present atmosphere.</p> - -<p>This was what I wished, but I had hoped that a month of tranquillity, -even though it had not succeeded in reforming her, had at least led her -to forget somewhat her former ways. I had imagined that, when the mask -fell, the face it would disclose would have less pallor about the lips -and more blushes upon the cheeks. I was mistaken. The mask fallen, I had -before me the same faded features, the same thick and noisy laugh. As -this woman was when she entered my mansarde, rough, vulgar and cynical, -so I again found her, after I had for a month protested against the -infamy of her past life, silently to be sure, but every day. She had -learned nothing, she had forgotten nothing. If her eyes shone with a new -expression, it was only because of the miserable joy she felt on seeing -that I seemed, at last, to have come down to her level. In view of this -strange result, I asked myself if it would not be simply a waste of time -to try again. I had wished for a real Laurence, and this Laurence, -through whom ran a breath of life, terrified me more, perhaps, than the -mournful creature of the past month. But the struggle promised to be so -sharp that I heard, in the depths of my being, my audacity of twenty -revolt at my repugnance and my fright.</p> - -<p>As six o'clock struck, although the ball would not begin until midnight, -Laurence began to make her toilet. Soon the chamber was in complete -disorder: water, splashing from the wash-basin and dripping from the wet -towels, flooded the floor; soap lather, fallen from Laurence's hands, -spread out upon the planks in whitish patches; the comb was on the floor -near the hair brush, and various articles of clothing, forgotten upon -the chairs, on the mantelpiece and in the corners, were soaking amid -pools of water. Laurence, to be more at her ease, had squatted down. She -was washing herself energetically, throwing handfuls of water in her -face and upon her shoulders. Despite this deluge, the soap, covered with -dust, left broad streaks of dirt on her skin. At this she was in -despair. Finally, she emptied the entire contents of the wash-basin over -her.</p> - -<p>Then she arose, shivering, her shoulders red, and began to use the -towel.</p> - -<p>The key had remained in the lock of the door. As Laurence was rubbing -her neck with the icy towel, Pâquerette came in. The old woman visited -us occasionally to get a stick or two from the hearth with which to -kindle her fire, and pity prevented me from driving her off in disgust.</p> - -<p>"Ah! my dear," cried Laurence to her, "come and help me a little. I'm -tired of this wretched rubbing."</p> - -<p>Pâquerette took the towel, and began to rub with all the strength of -her wasted arms. She did not seem astonished at either the disorder of -the chamber or Laurence's wholesale preparations for the ball. She -quietly passed her stiff hands over the girl's fresh looking shoulders, -envying their whiteness, thinking of the pleasures of the past. -Laurence, her head half turned around, smiled upon her and shivered by -fits.</p> - -<p>"Where are you going, my child?" at last asked the horrible old -woman.</p> - -<p>"Claude has invited me to go to the ball."</p> - -<p>"Ah! that's as it should be, Monsieur," resumed Pâquerette, ceasing to -ply the towel and turning towards me.</p> - -<p>Then, taking up a dry towel, she continued, as she affectionately wiped -Laurence's arms:</p> - -<p>"I said to myself only this morning that you would soon die of sadness, -if you persisted in always remaining shut up in this chamber. Laurence -is a good girl, Monsieur, a very good girl and a kind-hearted and -indulgent one into the bargain. I know more than one such who would have -quitted you twenty times, if subjected to the same treatment that -Laurence has undergone for the past month. She is a miracle of patience -and devotion to have remained. There, my child, you are as dry as a bone -and as beautiful as a butterfly. You will have hosts of handsome and -attentive gallants at the ball to-night! Are you jealous, Claude?"</p> - -<p>I could not answer her. I smiled mechanically, and continued to gaze -upon the strange scene. A single engrossing recollection, which -unceasingly presented itself to my mind, prevented me from hearing what -the old woman said. It was that of an antiquated engraving, which I had -seen I know not where, representing Venus at her toilet, bathed by -nymphs, caressed by little Cupids. The goddess has abandoned herself to -the arms of her women, as young and beautiful as herself; the foam of -the waves partially covers them, and, on the shore, an old faun stands -lost in mute admiration and astonishment at the sight of so much youth -and freshness.</p> - -<p>"He is jealous, he is jealous!" cried Pâquerette, with a sharp laugh, -broken by hiccoughs. "So much the better for you, my girl; he will make -you more presents and it will be much easier for you to fool him. I once -had an admirer, who strongly resembled you, Monsieur. He was a trifle -shorter, I think, but he had the same eyes, the same mouth; he even wore -his hair combed back, as you do. He adored me, overwhelmed me with -attention and followed me everywhere, but, nevertheless, I dismissed him -at the end of a week."</p> - -<p>While Pâquerette was chattering, Laurence had dressed herself. She -combed her hair, standing before the looking-glass, serious and -thoughtful. The old woman stood beside her, as straight as a lance; she -had ceased to babble, and was enviously contemplating the packages of -rouge, and the vials of aromatic oils, common perfumery bought at a low -price at stands in the open air. The two women having forgotten me, I -sat down in a corner.</p> - -<p>I saw their images in the looking-glass. Both the faces, despite the -wrinkles of the one and the relative freshness of the other, seemed to -me to have the same expression of degradation and baseness. The same -looks stamped with dissipation, the same pale lips, were common to each. -One could hardly read upon their faded cheeks the number of years which -separated their ages. They were equally old in sin. For an instant I -thought that I was endeavoring to reform Pâquerette instead of -Laurence, and I closed my eyes to banish her from my sight.</p> - -<p>They had forgotten that I existed. Occasionally they spoke in whispers. -Laurence swore, striking her foot violently on the floor, when one of -her rebellious locks refused to curl. Then the old woman spoke of her -own flaxen tresses of other days; she described the style of coiffure of -the girls of her time, and, to make herself better understood, arranged -in her turn her gray locks before the looking-glass. Then followed long -eulogies upon my companion's youth, endless lamentations in regard to -the weariness of old age. Pâquerette said that her wrinkles had come to -her long before she was ready for them, and that she greatly regretted -not having enjoyed herself more when she was twenty. Now, she must live -slowly in silence and gloom, having at heart a jealous admiration for -those who could yet grow old.</p> - -<p>Laurence listened, but only asked questions, demanding if such and such -a curl became her, seeking for new praises. Then, when her locks, so -long toiled over, had been satisfactorily arranged, her face was to be -painted. Pâquerette wished to put the finishing touch to the -masterpiece. She took red and blue pigments upon little balls of -wadding, and passed them along the cheeks and around the eyes of the -young woman. She enlarged her eyelids, purified her forehead and gave -health to her lips. And, like us, poor dreamers, who daub reality with -discordant colors and afterwards cry out that we have made a creation, -she was amazed at her work, without seeing that her trembling hand had -confused the features, exaggerated the red of the lips and made the -eyelids too large. Beneath her fingers Laurence's visage had horribly -changed, I thought. It had acquired in spots dull and earthy tints, -while in other spots, which had been rubbed with ointment put on to fix -the rouge, it shone with tremendous brilliancy. The stretched and -irritated skin grimaced; the entire face, at once red and faded, had the -silly smile of pasteboard dolls. The tones were so loud and so false -that they wounded the sight.</p> - -<p>Laurence, straight and motionless, her glance partially turned towards -the looking-glass, complacently allowed herself to be rejuvenated. She -scratched off with her finger-nail the touches which seemed to her too -prominent. Leaning forward, she gravely studied for several seconds each -of the beauties which Pâquerette gave her.</p> - -<p>The work finished, the old woman drew back a few paces the better to -scrutinize what she had done and note its effect. Then, satisfied, she -exclaimed:</p> - -<p>"Ah! my child, you look like a girl of fifteen!"</p> - -<p>Laurence smiled contentedly. Both of these creatures were sincere; they -frankly admired, not doubting in the least that a miracle had been -worked. Then, they remembered me. Laurence, proud of the restored charms -of her fifteenth year, came to embrace me, wishing to dazzle my eyes -with her newly-acquired beauty. Her bare shoulders had the fresh and -peculiar odor of a person who has just come out of a bath. At the touch -of her cold lips, damp with rouge, I shivered with disgust.</p> - -<p>"Bear me in mind, my child," said Pâquerette, as she was leaving the -room. "Old women like sweetmeats."</p> - -<p>We had yet two full hours to wait. I have no remembrance of any -weariness so terrible. This waiting for a pleasure which clashed with -all my tastes was indescribably uncomfortable and sad, and Laurence's -impatience retarded still more for me the slow march of the minutes.</p> - -<p>She was seated upon the bed, in her costume of pink satin ornamented -with gilt spangles; this tinsel had the strangest effect in the world, -brought into bold relief by the smoky paper on the chamber walls. The -lamp burned dimly, the silence was broken only by the dashing of the -rain against the window panes. Brothers, I do not know what demon then -took possession of me, but I must admit to you, who know all my thoughts -and feelings, that, sitting in the presence of that woman, abandoned by -my cherished ideas, I caught myself wishing Laurence young and -beautiful; I desired the power to transform my miserable mansarde into a -delicious and mysterious retreat, a veritable nest for ideal happiness, -with every surrounding of luxury and magnificence. For the moment, I -lost all higher aspirations. What disgusted me was no longer vice, but -ugliness and poverty.</p> - -<p>At last, I went for a carriage and we started for the ball. Despite the -lateness of the hour, the streets were still full of noise and light. -Bursts of laughter came from every corner, groups of drunkards and women -were in each drinking house. Nothing could be more odious to see than -the people running in the mud, and elbowing each other amid the refrains -of bacchanalian songs. Laurence, leaning out of the carriage window, -laughed heartily at this disgusting joy. She called to the passers-by, -seeking insult, happy at being able to participate in a war of rough -words. As I remained mute, she said to me:</p> - -<p>"Well! what on earth are you doing? Do you intend to go to sleep while -you are taking me to the ball?"</p> - -<p>I leaned out of the window in my turn; I sought for some one to insult. -I would willingly have struck one of those brutes who were amused by -such a spectacle as I then saw. Before me, upon the sidewalk, stood a -tall young man with his shirt unbuttoned at the throat; a circle of -laughers surrounded him, applauding each one of the many oaths he -uttered. I shook my fist menacingly at him, for I was terribly -exasperated. I hurled at him, as we went along, the most offensive -epithets I could summon up.</p> - -<p>"And your wife!" cried he, in reply. "Put her out here a little while, -that we may pay her our compliments!"</p> - -<p>The rough words of this man changed my anger into an indescribable -sadness. I closed the window and leaned my forehead against the damp -glass, leaving Laurence to her wretched pleasure. I was, so to speak, -rocked by the cries of the crowd and the hollow roll of the vehicle. I -saw, with the vague sight of a dream, the passers flee behind me, -strange shadows which lengthened and vanished without presenting any -meaning to my mind. And, in this din, in this quick succession of -darkness and light, I remember that I forgot everything for an instant, -and gazed dreamily into the pools of water and mud between the -pavements, upon which the lamps of the shops cast rapid reflections.</p> - -<p>It was thus that we reached the ball-room.</p> - -<p>To-morrow, brothers, I will tell you the rest. I cannot write everything -now.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XII</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_PUBLIC_BALL">THE PUBLIC BALL</a></h4> - - -<p>Oh! my remembrances, faithful companions, I cannot take a step in this -world but you rise before me! When, with Laurence on my arm, I cast from -a gallery a rapid glance around the ball-room full of noise and light, I -saw again, in a sudden and sad vision, the smooth, stone-paved floor -upon which the girls of Provence dance, in the evening, to the music of -the fife and tambourine! How we used to ridicule them! The peasant -girls, not those of our dreams, those who had the faces and the hearts -of queens, but poor creatures whom the ardent soil had faded before -their time, seemed to us to bound heavily, casting us silly smiles as -they lumbered by. We closed our eyes against reality. We saw, beyond the -horizon, immense palaces, halls paved with marble, with lofty and gilded -roofs, filled with a whole nation of young women, who danced with the -utmost harmony, in a cloud of lace spangled with diamonds. Truly, we -were foolish children. Now, brothers, the peasant girls have taken -vengeance for our disdain.</p> - -<p>I beheld, from the gallery in which I found myself, a sort of oblong -hall, of quite large dimensions, ornamented with faded paintings and -gilding. A fine dust, raised by the dancers' feet, ascended slowly from -the floor, like a mist, and filled the place. The bright flames of the -gas looked red in this cloud; everything had a vague appearance, a -strange hue of old copper. At the further end of the hall, galloped a -frightful circle of creatures who could not be seen distinctly; the fury -of their movements seemed to communicate itself to the thick and -nauseous air; in the whirl, I thought I saw the walls tremble and turn -with the crowd. A piercing clamor, accompanied by a sort of prolonged -roll, drowned the music of the orchestra.</p> - -<p>I cannot describe to you the first impressions produced on me by this -place, in which each thing had in my eyes a special and unknown life. -The shrill noises, the sonorous laughter bursting out like sobs, the -frightful contortions of the furious dancers, the biting and suffocating -odors, all came to me in a sharp sensation which filled my being with a -vague terror, with which was mingled a sad pleasure. I could not laugh, -for I felt my throat close, and yet I was unable to turn away my head, -so delirious was the joy I experienced amid my suffering. I now -understand the fascination of these exciting soirées. At the first -sight one trembles, one refuses to lend himself to the terrible gayety; -then intoxication comes, and, with bewildered brain, one abandons -himself to the gulf. Common souls are soon won over. Those who have the -strength of their dreams—dare I, brothers, count myself among -them?—revolt, and, in their frankness, regret the humble -dancing-floors of Provence upon which the awkward and lumbering peasant -girls dance in the fresh, clear night.</p> - -<p>From the gallery in which we were, we could see only the general effect -of the scene. We quitted it, descending the stairways and reaching the -main floor by passing through narrow and dark passages. Arrived in the -ball-room, we were forced to follow a slender path contrived between the -walls and the quadrilles. All my pleasure was gone; I now felt only -disgust. The women were clad in tatters, in ragged silks spangled with -dirty brass; their bare shoulders were dripping with perspiration; -paint, in broad pools, in long streaks, reddened and blued their skin. -One of them, with an inflamed visage and a hoarse voice, turned towards -me, gesticulating and shouting. What a strange, hideous face she had! I -shall see it again in my bad dreams!</p> - -<p>I do not remember having noticed the men. They were, it seems to me, for -the most part, standing straight and motionless, looking with great -calmness at the tumultuous bounds of the women. I cannot tell you what -kind of people they were, or if they appeared to comprehend the extent -of their idiocy.</p> - -<p>Weary already, feeling my head ready to split, I reached a table, -dragging Laurence after me. We sat down, and I drank what the waiter -brought me, studying my companion.</p> - -<p>Laurence, at her entrance, had smiled, quivering with enjoyment, -breathing her fill of that vitiated air so sweet to her lips. Her smile -soon vanished and her countenance resumed its mournful look. Sometimes, -she put out her arm and touched the hand of a woman or a man who passed. -On such occasions her smile reappeared for a few seconds, and then -vanished again. Partially thrown back upon her chair, her feet resting -on a small bench, she rocked herself slowly, gazing into the ball-room -with an air at once attentive and wearied. She looked from group to -group in silence, turning her head at each new noise, seeming to wish to -let nothing escape her. But there was so much fatigue in her attention -that I asked myself, as I saw her pale and desolate face, what singular -pleasure she could be experiencing to show so little of it.</p> - -<p>Twice, thinking that my presence was a clog to her, I told her to leave -me if she liked, to mingle with and greet her friends, to dance in -perfect freedom.</p> - -<p>"Why should I get up?" she tranquilly answered me. "I am very -comfortable and perfectly satisfied. Are you weary of having me beside -you?"</p> - -<p>It was thus that we passed five hours, face to face, in a corner of the -ball-room, I unconsciously sketching men's figures on the marble top of -the table with a few drops of liquor spilled from a decanter, she -maintaining despairing gravity and silence, her hands crossed upon her -lap. I no longer had the least comprehension of what was going on around -me. As the ball was drawing towards its close, I felt more like -suffocating than ever. This was the last sensation that I remember -having experienced. When the final galop drew me from this species of -deep stupor, I saw Laurence arise; she swore and kicked aside the little -bench, which had become entangled among her skirts; then, she took my -arm, and we made a final tour of the ball-room before departing. Upon -the threshold, Laurence turned with a yawn, casting a last look at the -disordered circle of dancers who were vociferating in the midst of a -frightful din.</p> - -<p>When we reached the street, an icy blast, which struck me in the face, -gave me a delicious feeling. I felt that I was restored to the good, to -free and energetic life; the intoxication which had possessed me was -driven away, and, beneath the drizzling winter rain, I had an instant of -ineffable pleasure, casting from me all the disgusts of the mad night. I -comprehended the wretchedness I had left behind me; I would have -preferred to go home on foot through the streets, allowing the glacial -water to penetrate me and renew my being.</p> - -<p>Laurence shivered at my side. She had fastened her handkerchief over her -bare shoulders; not daring to venture on, she looked in a despairing way -at the sombre sky and at the gutters which were overflowing upon the -pavements. The poor girl thought the wintry sky capable only of giving -her inflammation of the lungs.</p> - -<p>I had two francs left. I hailed a fiacre and helped Laurence into it. -She gathered herself up in one of the corners and there sat silently, -without ceasing to shiver. I saw her on my left, like a patch of -tarnished white. Sometimes, a drop of water, which had remained upon her -garments, rolled as far as my hand.</p> - -<p>After an instant had elapsed, a sort of drowsiness seized upon me and -sleep closed my eyes. As I dozed, I seemed to hear the din of the ball; -the jolts of the vehicle whirled me away as in a furious dance, and the -axle-trees, with their sharp noise, played those airs which all night -long had filled my ears. When, feverish and excited, I opened my eyes, I -stared stupidly at the sides of the narrow box which seemed to me full -of music and tumult. Then, I felt a biting sensation of cold; finding -beneath my hand the icy hand of Laurence, I remembered where I had been -and realized where I was. Without, the rain was still falling; the -flickering lights fled rapidly behind us.</p> - -<p>Fatigue once more made me close my eyes, and again I was drawn into the -midst of gigantic circles of dancers, incessantly renewed. It seems to -me now that I remember vaguely having danced thus for long hours. I -found myself nailed to a bench, beside a shivering woman, and I whirled -I know not how in a sort of box which rolled with a tremendous noise at -the bottom of a glacial gulf.</p> - -<p>Having ascended to my chamber, while Laurence was taking off her -costume, I threw all my remaining wood upon the fire, which was faintly -burning upon the hearth. Then, I hastened to bed, happy as a child to -find myself again amid my poverty, gazing with loving glances at the -broad lights and shadows which the flames of the hearth caused to dance -up and down along my poor walls. Calmness had taken possession of me -from the moment I crossed the threshold of this retired chamber. With my -head upon the pillow, at peace and almost smiling, I gazed at my -companion who, standing pensively before the fire, was removing her -garments one by one.</p> - -<p>She soon came to me, and sat down at my feet on the edge of the bed. -Breaking, at last, the silence which she had maintained until then, she -began to talk with extreme volubility.</p> - -<p>Enveloped in an old wrapper, with her feet drawn up under her and her -hands clasped in front of her knees, she indulged in loud bursts of -laughter, throwing her head backwards. She seemed to be in haste to -throw off all the words, all the gayety, she had amassed. For nearly a -whole hour she entertained me with a recital of the thousand incidents -of the ball. She had seen everything, heard everything. She gave vent to -exclamations without end, sudden joys, hurried and tumultuous -reminiscences. A man had slipped in such a way, a woman had sworn in -such another way; Jeanne wore a milkmaid's costume which became her -marvellously; Louise looked hideous as a Scotch lassie; as to Edouard, -he had certainly pawned his watch that very morning. And she rattled on, -always finding some new detail, repeating the same circumstance ten -times rather than pause. Then, shivering with cold, she finally went to -bed. She asserted that she had never before been so much amused at a -ball, and made me promise to take her to another as soon as I possibly -could. She fell asleep thus, while still talking to me, laughing amid -her slumber.</p> - -<p>This sudden awakening to life, this flood of feverish words, strangely -astonished me. I could not then and I cannot now explain to myself the -coldness and indolence of this girl amid the tumult of the night, and -her bursts of gayety, her chatter of the morning in our sad and silent -chamber. Why had she torn from me the promise to take her as soon and as -often as possible to these balls, where she laughed so little and did -not dance at all? Besides, if she were acting in good faith, what was -that singular joy which had manifested itself by silence and ill-humor -during the soirée, and, later, had broken out in thick and delighted -laughter?</p> - -<p>Oh! what an unknown world is that of the flesh and dissipation, in which -I find food for amazement at every step! I dare not as yet critically -examine all this wretchedness, the motives of this puzzling woman, cold -in her feelings, weary and half asleep amid her joys! I took her to the -ball to save her, but she had come back from it more terrible, more -impenetrable than ever!</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIII</h4> - -<h4><a id="AN_ACCEPTANCE_OF_REALITY">AN ACCEPTANCE OF REALITY</a></h4> - - -<p>You complain of my silence; you are uneasy, and ask me what new sorrows -have made the pen fall from my fingers.</p> - -<p>Brothers, my new sorrows are caused by the fact that our ridiculous -fancies of childhood are being dissipated one by one. This adieu to -early hopes has, in its salutary harshness, the most profound -bitterness. I feel myself becoming a man; I weep over my departing -weaknesses, taking, at the same time, a great pride in the strength I am -acquiring.</p> - -<p>Ah! how silly youth would be, if it had not its beautiful simplicity! -The foolishness upon the lips of the child is an adorable ignorance by -which men are quietly amused. Scarcely a month ago, I was a simpleton; -I spoke to you innocently of the redemption of women. Verily, to have -heard me, an old man would at once have smiled his sweetest smile and -ironically shaken his head: he would have given the smile to the young -soul who had faith in entire perfection, and addressed the shake of the -head to the absurd youth who was boldly attempting the miracle which the -Saviour alone has the power to work.</p> - -<p>Enough of deceptions! The brutal truth has strange delights for those -who are tormented by the problem of life; they are weary of those hopes -which mothers bequeath to their children, and which, slow to vanish, -abandon them one by one, lengthening their martyrdom. As for me, I -prefer, even should I suffer from having all my illusions torn from me -in a day, to see clearly into this world of dissipation to the depths of -which I have descended.</p> - -<p>No doubt, some once sinful women who have sincerely repented are met -with. Women who have strayed from the right path have seen the error of -their ways, have reformed, have found husbands and have been pardoned. -But such things are miracles. The laws common to short-sighted humanity -seem to ordain that wretched women, who have once forgotten themselves, -shall be trodden under foot, torn to pieces, and their fragments so -scattered that they cannot be reunited at the final hour.</p> - -<p>Listen, brothers: should a Magdalen crawl at your feet, cursing her past -errors, promising you a new youth of love, do not believe her. Heaven is -not lavish of prodigies. Providence rarely shackles human misfortunes. -Say to yourselves that evil is powerful, and that in this world of ours -falsehood is not changed into truth even to give relief to a poor, -suffering soul. Repulse the Magdalen, spurn her, laugh at her tears and -the pleading of her heart; rail against all redemption. Such is the -advice of what men call wisdom.</p> - -<p>I feel that I am gaining experience in worldly matters.</p> - -<p>Laurence is a soul forever lost, a stupefied intelligence, a creature so -hardened that nothing can awaken her from her sleep in the mud. I might -bruise her flesh, I might break her bones with a club, or I might lift -her drowsy eyelids with kisses, but she would still squat at my feet, -without a quiver, without a cry either of pain or joy. Sometimes, I am -tempted to cry out to her:</p> - -<p>"Get up and let us fight; awake, shout, swear, and show me that you are -yet alive by making me suffer!"</p> - -<p>She looks at me with her dull eyes; I recoil affrighted, not daring to -speak. Laurence is dead, dead in heart and in thought. I can do nothing -with such a corpse.</p> - -<p>Brothers, I have no longer the slightest hope; I no longer wish to -trouble myself about this girl. She has refused my life of toil and I -cannot accept her life of dissipation. The dream was too lofty; the -reality seems to me like a bottomless pit. I have paused and am waiting. -For what? I do not know!</p> - -<p>I have only to justify myself in your eyes. I know that you see clearly -into my soul, that you explain my acts to yourselves by thoughts of -justice and duty. You have more confidence in me than I myself dare to -have. At times I question myself, I judge myself as I am, no doubt, -judged by the passers whom I elbow in this life; I am afraid of the vice -which surrounds without corrupting me, of the woman who remains in my -presence without being my companion. Then, in utter despair, I am -tempted to do what others would do, to take Laurence by the shoulders -and push her back into the street from whence she came. Should I do -this, she would resume her old career as madly, as recklessly, as ever, -bearing upon her forehead the stamp of the same wretchedness and infamy -as before. And I would calmly close my door, having stolen nothing from -her, owing her nothing. Men's consciences are very elastic; there are -people who possess the science of remaining honest by becoming cowardly -and cruel.</p> - -<p>Laurence has thrust herself upon my protection with all the strength of -her abandonment. She remains with me, tranquil and passive. I cannot, -however, drive her away. My poverty prevents me from paying her to go. -We are fatally bound one to the other by misfortune. As long as she -shall feel inclined to stay, I shall believe it my duty to accept her -presence.</p> - -<p>Hence I am waiting, and, I repeat, I know not for what I am waiting. -Like Laurence, I am weighed down, I live in a sort of somnolence at once -mild and sad, without suffering too greatly, feeling in my heart only a -colossal fatigue. After all, I am not irritated against this girl; I -feel more pity than anger, more sadness than hatred.</p> - -<p>I no longer struggle, I abandon myself; I find in the certainty of evil -a strange repose, a pacification of my entire being.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIV</h4> - -<h4><a id="JACQUES_AND_MARIE">JACQUES AND MARIE</a></h4> - - -<p>You remember tall Jacques, that long, pale and quiet lad, do you not? I -see him yet, walking in the shade of the plane trees on the college -green; he walked with a slow and firm step, kicking away the pebbles -with his foot; he laughed tranquilly, was logical in his smiles and -lived in supreme indifference. I remember that, on a day of effusion, he -confided to me the secret of his strength. I understood nothing of his -disclosures, except that he designed to live happily by ripening his -heart and mind.</p> - -<p>When fifteen, I dreamed only of tall Jacques. I envied his long blond -hair, his superb indolence. He was, among us, a type of elegance and -aristocratic disdain. I was surprised by his selfish nature, which had -nothing either young or generous about it; I admired the dull and cold -lad who went among us with the indulgent and superior gravity of a man.</p> - -<p>I have seen tall Jacques again. He is my neighbor; he lives in the same -house as I, two floors lower down. Yesterday, as I was mounting the -stairway, I met a young man and a young woman who were descending. The -young man, without hesitation and in the most natural manner in the -world, extended me his hand.</p> - -<p>"How are you, Claude?" he said to me.</p> - -<p>He acted as if he had quitted me only the previous day. He had scarcely -looked at my face, but I looked at his in the partial obscurity of the -landing, without being able to recognize his features. His hand was -cold. I know not by what strange sensation I recognized his calm and -indifferent flesh.</p> - -<p>"Is it you, Jacques?" I cried. "Good heavens! you are taller than -ever!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes, it is I," answered he, with a smile. "I lodge there, at the -end of the passage, number 17. Come and see me this evening, between -seven and eight o'clock."</p> - -<p>And he went down-stairs, without turning his head, preceded by the young -woman who stared at me with the wide open eyes of a child. I stood still -for an instant, leaning over the railing, and looked after this youth -who was departing with a calm step, while my heart was leaping violently -in my breast.</p> - -<p>In the evening, I went down to number 17. The chamber was fitted up with -the false and discouraging luxury of the furnished lodging-houses of -Paris. You cannot imagine, brothers, the wretched and shameful air of -the frayed red hangings, gray with dust, of the dirty and greasy -furniture, of the cracked faïences, of the nameless objects, rags and -wrecks which were spread out along the damp walls. My mansarde is barer, -but not so hideous. Two large and lofty windows, garnished with thin -muslin curtains, threw a raw light over all this rubbish. One saw a -wardrobe with glass doors, which was tarnished and had one side -broken; a bed enveloped by faded curtains; a miserable sofa -and deplorable arm-chairs, yellow from use; besides, the room -contained a toilet-bureau, a desk, a table, chairs, odd pieces of -furniture—furniture which had served in dining-rooms, bed-chambers, -parlors and offices. The general effect had I know not what of -pretentiousness and filth which disgusted me. At the first glance, one -might think he had entered the chamber of the right sort of people; at -the second, one saw the dirt on the mahogany and on the damask, and one -felt that he was amid vice and slovenliness.</p> - -<p>I was saddened by the unhealthful aspect of this chamber; I breathed -with disgust the thick and nauseous air, smelling of dust, old varnish -and faded stuffs, a biting and stifling odor which is common to all -furnished lodging-houses.</p> - -<p>Jacques, seated at the desk, was toiling away peacefully, a Code open -before him. The young woman I had met on the stairway was lying upon the -sofa, her eyes fixed on the ceiling, silent and grave.</p> - -<p>Jacques half turned his chair; his face appeared to me in the full -light. It was still the same visage of other days, a superb and -indifferent visage; one read in it a strong will, made up of selfishness -and coldness. The man had become what the boy promised to be. Our former -comrade must be what the world calls a practical and serious person; he -has an aim: he wishes to be a counselor, a lawyer or a notary, and moves -onward towards his goal with all the power of his tranquillity. With -closed heart and calm flesh, he accepts this world without either thanks -or revolt. Jacques has an honest nature, a just mind; he will live -honorably, according to duty and custom; he will not weaken, because he -will not have to weaken; he will pass on, straight and firm, having -nothing either to hate or to love. In his clear and empty eyes, I do not -find the soul; upon his pale lips I do not see the blood of the heart.</p> - -<p>In the presence of this quiet and smiling young man, bending over his -law books and extending to me his cool hand, I thought of myself, -brothers, of my poor being incessantly shaken by the fever of wishes and -regrets. I advance staggeringly; I have not to protect me Jacques' -imperturbable tranquillity, his silence of heart and of soul. I am all -flesh, all love; I feel myself profoundly vibrate at the least -sensation. Events lead me; I can neither conduct nor surmount them. -To-morrow, in my free life, if I should happen to wound the world, the -world will turn from me, because I obeyed my pride and my tenderness. -Jacques will be saluted, having followed the common route. I dare not -say aloud that virtue is a question of temperament; but, brothers, I -think all the same that the Jacqueses upon this earth are basely -virtuous, while the Claudes have the frightful misfortune of having in -them an eternal tempest, an immense desire for the good, which agitates -them and leads them beyond the judgment of the crowd.</p> - -<p>The young woman had taken her glance from the ceiling and was looking at -me, with partially open lips and curious eyes. Her face had the -transparent whiteness of wax, with dull flushes on the cheeks; her pale -lips, her soft and brown eyelids gave to her visage the air of a sick -and resigned child. She was fifteen, and, at times, when she smiled, one -would have thought her scarcely twelve.</p> - -<p>While Jacques was talking to me in his slow voice, I could not take my -eyes from the young girl's touching countenance, so youthful and so -faded. There were upon her frank forehead profound lassitude and -languor; the blood no longer flowed beneath her skin; the shivers of -life no longer made her slumbering flesh tremble. Have you ever seen, in -her cradle, a little girl whom fever has rendered whiter and more -innocent than usual? She sleeps with her eyes wide open; she has the -gentle and peaceful visage of an angel; she suffers and she seems to -smile. The strange little girl whom I had before me, that woman who had -remained a child, resembled her sister in the cradle. Only, in her case, -it was more pitiful to see upon a forehead of fifteen so much purity and -so much pallor, all the innocent graces of a young girl and all the -shameful fatigues of a woman.</p> - -<p>She had thrown back her arms and was supporting her languishing head -upon her hands. I was ignorant of her history; I knew not who she was or -what she was doing in this chamber. But, from her entire being, I saw -the innocence of her heart and the disgrace of her life; I recognized -the youthfulness of her glances and the premature age of her blood; I -said to myself that she was dying of decrepitude at fifteen, with a -spotless soul. Emaciated and weakened, she would expire like a fallen -creature, but with the smile of an angel upon her lips.</p> - -<p>I sat for two full hours between Jacques and Marie, contemplating these -two beings, studying their countenances. I could not conjecture what had -brought such a man and such a woman together. Then, I thought of -Laurence, and comprehended that unions existed which could not be -avoided.</p> - -<p>Jacques seems to me satisfied with the existence he leads. He toils, he -regulates his pleasures and his studies; he lives the life of a student -without impatience, even with a certain tranquil satisfaction. I noticed -that he showed some pride in receiving me in such a beautiful chamber; -he does not see all the ignoble ugliness of the false and wretched -luxury which surrounds him. Besides, he is neither vain nor a coxcomb; -he is a great deal too practical to have such defects. He spoke to me -only of his hopes, of his future position; he is in haste to be no -longer young and to live as becomes a grave man. Meanwhile, in order to -be like the rest of mankind, he consents to inhabit a chamber at fifty -francs per month rent, he wishes to smoke, to drink a little, and even -to have a sweetheart. But he considers all this simply as a custom which -he cannot refuse; he designs, after having passed his final examination, -to disembarrass himself of his cigar, of Marie and of his glass as -pieces of furniture thenceforward useless. He has calculated, nearly to -the minute, the time when he will have a right to the respect of worthy -people.</p> - -<p>Marie listened to Jacques' theories with perfect calmness. She did not -appear to comprehend that she was one of those pieces of furniture which -a young man would abandon on removing from one circle of society to -another. The poor girl, doubtless, cares very little who protects her, -provided that she has a sofa upon which she can rest her painful limbs.</p> - -<p>Besides, Jacques and Marie talked together with a gentleness which -surprised me. They seemed to accept each other, to take care of each -other. There is not love, not even friendship in their discourse; it is -a polite language which shuns every quarrel and keeps the heart in a -state of complete indifference. Jacques must have been the inventor of -this language.</p> - -<p>After an hour had elapsed, Jacques declared that he could not afford to -lose any more time; he resumed his work, begging me to remain, assuring -me that my presence would not annoy him in any way whatever. I drew my -chair up to the sofa, and chatted in a low voice with Marie. This woman -attracted me; I felt for her all the tenderness and pity of a father.</p> - -<p>She talked like a child, now in monosyllables, now with volubility, -enthusiastically and without pausing. I had formed a correct opinion of -her: her intelligence and heart have remained those of an infant, while, -physically, she has grown up and strayed from the path which leads to -true happiness. She is exquisitely innocent; horribly so sometimes, -when, with a sweet smile upon her lips and large, astonished eyes, she -allows rude words to escape from her delicate mouth. She does not blush, -being totally ignorant of blushes; she does not seem to realize her -condition, and is slowly dying, without knowing either what she is or -what are the other young girls who turn away their heads when she passes -them on the streets.</p> - -<p>Little by little, she told me the story of her life. I was able, phrase -by phrase, to reconstruct this lamentable story. A connected narrative -would not have satisfied me, for I should have hesitated to believe. I -preferred that she should make a confession, without knowing she was -doing so, by partial avowals, in the course of conversation.</p> - -<p>Marie thinks she is fifteen years old. She does not know where she was -born, but vaguely remembers a woman who beat her, her mother without -doubt. Her earliest recollections date from the streets; she recalls -that she played there and that she slept there. In fact, her life has -been a long walk in the thoroughfares. It would be very difficult for -her to tell what she did up to the age of eight; when I questioned her -in regard to her early years, she replied that she had forgotten all -about them, except that she was very hungry and very cold. In her eighth -year, like all the little outcasts, she sold flowers. She slept then at -the Fontainebleau gate, in a large, gloomy garret which was the refuge -of a whole herd of children of the same age as herself, all of whom had -been abandoned by their parents to the cold charity of the world. Until -she was fourteen, she went to this kennel, choosing her corner every -night, sometimes well received by her companions, sometimes beaten by -them, growing up amid wretchedness and want, nobody stretching out a -hand to save her or uttering a word to awaken her heart. She was in the -deepest ignorance, and did not even know that she possessed a mind and a -soul. She acquired evil ways, without suspecting that evil existed; at -present, though she had become a woman of the world, she still had her -childish face and her mind was yet infantile and innocent. She had -strayed too early in life for sin to touch her soul.</p> - -<p>I now understood the meaning of her strange visage, made up of -shamelessness and innocence, of beauty at once youthful and faded. I had -the key to the mystery of this cynical girl, this weary woman, who was -dying with the calmness and the whiteness of a martyr. She was the -daughter of the great city, and the great city had made of her a -monstrous creature neither a child nor a woman. In that being, whose -soul no one had awakened, that soul still slumbered. The body itself -had, doubtless, never been aroused. Marie was a creature simple in mind -and flesh, who, while she had trodden muddy paths, had remained pure -amid the mud, knowing nothing and accepting everything. I saw her before -me, already branded, with her sweet smile, talking to me of herself, in -her somewhat hoarse voice, as our little sisters talk to us of their -dolls, and I felt a sickening sensation take possession of my heart.</p> - -<p>When Marie reached fourteen, an old woman, who had no right whatever to -her, sold her. She allowed herself to be bought; she almost offered -herself for sale, as she had offered her bouquets of violets. She still -had rosy cheeks, and her laughter rang out gayly. She now had silk -dresses and jewels; she accepted the silk and the gold as she would have -accepted playthings, tearing, wasting everything. But Marie lived thus, -because she did not know that one could live in any other way; she could -not appreciate the value of luxury, and would have accepted with -indifference either a hovel or a hôtel. It pleased her to live in -idleness, to look at the walls; suffering, which had already bent her, -made her love repose, a sort of vague reverie, on coming out of which -she seemed uneasy and agitated. When one interrogated her, asking her -what she had seen, she responded in a bewildered tone: "I do not know!"</p> - -<p>She lived thus for nearly a year, running about among the furnished -lodging houses, sometimes living in one, sometimes in another, without -losing anything of her serenity. As I showed some surprise and could not -vanquish all the disgust with which such an existence filled me, she was -greatly amazed and did not in the least understand my feelings.</p> - -<p>One evening, poverty returned to her, and Marie was on her way back to -the garret at the Fontainebleau gate, when she met Jacques. She told me -of this meeting in a voice which I shall never forget, with a stony look -in her eyes and noisy laughter upon her lips. It was she who spoke to -Jacques, asking him for his arm because it was dark and the pavement was -slippery. She had no other thought than to obtain his aid for the -moment. Jacques questioned her, drew her story from her and took pity on -her. He offered her a shelter more suitable for her than that to which -she was going, and took her to the house in which he lived. She made no -objection, maintaining her usual calmness. She would not, perhaps, have -asked any one for a bed, for she had thought only of the straw in the -garret at the Fontainebleau gate, but she accepted the feathers and -white sheets, which had fallen from the sky, without either joy or -repugnance. From that time, she had lived as much as possible on the -sofa.</p> - -<p>I can easily imagine that Jacques thought he had made a good -acquisition, in offering his protection to Marie. She was in every way -suited to become his companion. She was of a weak and calm nature, and -would not trouble him in his indifference; she was a careless girl of -whom he could easily disembarrass himself, a woman charming in her -pallor, who had all the grace of youth without having either its -caprices or its inconsistency. Besides, Marie, though sometimes -suffering, has her days of life and gayety; she is not yet nailed to a -mattress, and, when she laughs in the sunshine, among her flaxen curls, -she glows with enough beauty to make Jacques himself dream.</p> - -<p>It pleases me, brothers, to talk to you of Jacques and Marie.</p> - -<p>I remained two or three hours with them, forgetting my sufferings, and I -wished to forget them still longer in describing to you my visit. It -will give you a glimpse of a world of which you are ignorant. That world -is touching; the study of it is biting, full of vertigo. I would -penetrate into its hearts and souls; I am attracted by these women and -men who live around me. Perhaps, when I analyze them, I shall be -discouraged at the result, but I love to analyze, nevertheless. These -people live a life so strange, that I believe myself always to be upon -the point of discovering in them new truths.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XV</h4> - -<h4><a id="BITING_POVERTY">BITING POVERTY</a></h4> - - -<p>We eat from day to day, selling old books or a few old clothes to get -money. My poverty is such that I no longer have any comprehension of it, -and that I go to sleep at night almost satisfied when I have twenty sous -remaining with which to purchase the two meals of the morrow.</p> - -<p>I have been to many offices to solicit employment. I have always been -received with roughness; I comprehend that I was guilty of the sin of -being poorly clad. I wrote a bad hand, they said; I was good for -nothing. I believed their words and retired, ashamed of having had, for -an instant, the thought of robbing these honest people by putting my -intelligence and will at their service.</p> - -<p>I am good for nothing—such is the truth that I have learned by my -attempts. I am good for nothing, except to suffer, to sob, to weep over -my youth and my heart. Hence, behold me alone in the world, repulsed and -miserable, not daring to beg, and feeling myself more famished than the -poor wretch who holds out his hand for alms. I came to Paris, plunged in -a dream of glory and fortune; I have awakened in the midst of mud and -distress.</p> - -<p>Happily, Heaven is kind and good. There is in want a sort of heavy -intoxication, a pleasurable somnolence, which puts to sleep the -conscience, the flesh and the mind. I do not clearly feel my degree of -indigence and infamy; I suffer little from my destitution; I doze in my -hunger and grovel in my idleness.</p> - -<p>This is my life:</p> - -<p>In the morning, I rise late. The mornings are foggy, cold and wan; the -light enters, gray and sad, through the curtainless window; it lies -about in a melancholy way upon the floor and walls. I experience a -sensation of comfort in feeling the agreeable warmth of the garments I -heap upon the bed. Laurence sleeps a sleep of lead, her face thrown back -and expressionless. As for me, with open eyes, the covers drawn to my -chin, I stare at the dingy ceiling which is crossed by a long chink. I -fall into an ecstasy before this chink; I study it, I follow delightedly -with my glance its broken lines; I contemplate it for hours at a time, -without thinking of anything.</p> - -<p>This is the best period of the day. I am warm and half asleep. My flesh -is satisfied, my mind strays gently through that beautiful land of -partial slumber in which life has all the pleasures of death. Then, -sometimes, when I am completely awakened, I abandon myself to the sway -of some dream. Brothers, what a child my poor heart must be that I can -still lie to it! Ah! yes, I dream constantly, I yet have that strange -power of escaping from reality, of creating from its wrecks a better -world and better beings. There, between two dirty sheets, in the -immediate vicinity of a woman hideous and wretched in her degradation, -in the midst of a gloomy chamber, I often see a palace, all marble and -silver, and a spotless, beautiful sweetheart, who stretches out her arms -to me and summons me to quit my miserable retreat and its shameful -surroundings.</p> - -<p>Eleven o'clock strikes and I leap from bed. The damp cold of the floor, -which suddenly chills the soles of my feet, draws me from my dream. I -shiver and dress myself. Then I walk about the room, going from the -window to the door, glancing at the wall which bounds my horizon, and -returning to stare at Laurence without seeing her. I smoke, yawn and try -to read. I am cold and weary.</p> - -<p>Laurence awakes. Then begins the chapter of suffering. We must eat. We -talk the matter over. We search the chamber for some object to sell. -Often we give up the idea of breakfasting, when the problem is too -difficult to solve and all is said. When we have happened to find some -old rag, some piece of paper, no matter what, Laurence dresses herself -and goes to offer the deplorable merchandise to a second-hand dealer, -who gives her eight or ten sous. She brings back bread and a little pork -which we eat as we stand, without talking to each other.</p> - -<p>The days are long for the wretched. When it is too cold and we have no -fire, I go to bed again. When the weather is milder I strive to toil, -giving myself a fever in trying to carry on work which does not desire -me any longer.</p> - -<p>Laurence throws herself into a chair or walks about with slow steps. She -drags along her blue silk dress, which seems to weep as it rustles past -the furniture. This rag is all yellow with grease, all torn, ripped at -the seams and worn at the folds. Laurence lets it get soiled and -tattered, without either cleaning or mending it. She puts it on in the -morning, having nothing else to wear, and walks in it the whole day -about this miserable chamber, with dishevelled locks, the low-necked -ball dress displaying her back and throat. And this dress, this soft -silk of a pale blue color, which still shines in spots, is an infamous, -twisted, faded and lamentable rag. I experience I know not what keen -anguish on seeing these shreds of rich tissue, this luxury dragged about -in the midst of want, this woman's bare shoulders reddened by the cold. -I shall always remember Laurence walking about, thus clad, in the den -sacred to my twentieth year.</p> - -<p>In the evening, the question of bread returns, terrible and pressing. We -eat or we do not eat. Then, we retire, weary and sleepy. On the morrow, -the same life begins again, but sharper and more biting every day.</p> - -<p>I have not been out of doors for a week past. One evening—we had -not eaten the previous day—I took off my coat on the Place du -Panthéon, and Laurence went to sell it. It was freezing. I went home on a -run, sweating great beads from fear and suffering. Two days afterwards my -pantaloons followed the coat. I no longer have clothes to wear. I wrap -myself up in a coverlet, I cover myself as I can and take thus the most -exercise possible to prevent my joints from stiffening. When any one -comes to see me, I hurry to bed and pretend to be a trifle indisposed.</p> - -<p>Laurence appears to suffer less than I do. She feels no shock, she does -not try to escape from the existence we lead. I cannot comprehend this -woman. She tranquilly accepts my poverty. Is it devotion or necessity?</p> - -<p>As for me, brothers, as I have told you, I am comfortable, I am plunged -in lethargy. I feel my being melting away; I abandon myself to that -gentle prostration of dying men, who ask for pity in a weak and -caressing tone. I have no desire whatever, except to eat more -frequently. I would also be pitied, caressed and loved. I have need of a -heart.</p> - -<p class="center">* * * * *</p> - -<p>Oh! brothers, I suffer, I suffer. I dare not speak; I feel shame close -my lips, and I can only weep, without taking from my breast the crushing -weight which is upon it.</p> - -<p>Poverty is mild and infamy light. And now Heaven is punishing me, bowing -me beneath a terrible hurricane, beneath an implacable wound.</p> - -<p>At last, brothers, you can give up all hope of me: I have no more steps -to descend, for I am at the bottom of the ladder; I am about to abandon -myself to the gulf—I am lost forever.</p> - -<p>Do not question me. I allow my cries to float to your ears, for grief is -too bitter for me to succeed in stifling its groans. But I restrain the -words upon my lips; I wish neither to frighten you nor to sadden you -with the recital of the terrible history of my heart.</p> - -<p>Say to yourselves that Claude is dead, that you will never see him more, -that all is, indeed, over. I prefer to suffer alone, even if I should -die of my suffering, to troubling your holy tranquillity by tearing -myself open before you, by showing you my bleeding wound.</p> - -<p>No, you will suffer from the revelation, but it is impossible for me to -maintain silence. I will find some consolation in imparting to you all -my thoughts and actions; I will be quieted when I know that you are -sobbing with me.</p> - -<p>Brothers, I love Laurence!</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVI</h4> - -<h4><a id="REMINISCENCES">REMINISCENCES</a></h4> - - -<p>Let me regret, let me remember, let me review all my youth in a single -glance.</p> - -<p>We were then twelve years old. I met you one October evening upon the -college green, beneath the plane trees, near the little fountain. You -were weak and timid. I know not what united us; our weakness, perhaps. -From that evening, we walked together, separating from each other for a -few hours, but clasping hands with stronger friendship after each -separation.</p> - -<p>I know that we have neither the same flesh nor the same heart. You live -and think differently from me, but you love as I do. There is the secret -of our fraternity. You have my tenderness and my pity; you kneel in -life, you seek some one upon whom to bestow your souls. We have a -communion of tenderness and affection.</p> - -<p>Do you remember the first years of our acquaintance? We read together -idle tales, grand romances of adventure which held us for six months -beneath their fascinating spell. We wrote verses and made chemical -experiments; we indulged in painting and music. There was, at the house -of one of us, on the fourth floor, a large chamber which served as our -laboratory and atelier. There, in the solitude, we committed our -childish crimes: we ate the raisins hanging from the ceiling, we risked -our eyes over retorts brought to a white heat, we wrote rhymed comedies -in three acts which I yet read to-day when I wish to smile. I still see -that large chamber, with its broad window, flooded with white light and -full of old newspapers, engravings trodden under foot, chairs with their -straw bottoms gone, and broken wood horses. It seems to me pleasant and -smiling, when I look at my chamber of to-day and perceive, standing in -the middle of it, Laurence who terrifies and attracts me.</p> - -<p>Later, the open air intoxicated us. We enjoyed the healthful dissipation -of the fields and long walks. It was madness, fury. We broke the -retorts, forgot the raisins and closed the door of the laboratory. In -the morning, we set out before day. I came beneath your windows to -summon you in the midst of darkness, and we hastened to quit the town, -our game bags on our backs, our guns upon our shoulders. I know not what -kind of game we chased; we went along, idling in the dew, running amid -the tall grass which bent down beneath our feet with sharp and quick -sounds; we wallowed in the country like young colts escaped from the -stable. Our game bags were empty on our return, but our minds were full -and our hearts also.</p> - -<p>What a delicious district is Provence, biting and mild for those who are -penetrated by its ardor and tenderness! I remember those white, damp and -almost cool dawns, which filled my being and the sky above with the -peace of supreme innocence; I remember the overwhelming sun of noon, the -hot, heavy and fragrant atmosphere which weighed down upon the earth, -those broad rays which poured from the heights like gold in -fusion—virile and powerful hour, giving to the blood a precocious -maturity and to the earth a marvellous fertility. We walked like brave -children amid those dawns and scorching noons, young and frisky in the -morning, but grave and more thoughtful in the evening; we talked in -brotherly fashion, sharing our bread together and experiencing the same -emotions.</p> - -<p>The lands were yellow or red, desert and desolate, sown with slender -trees; here and there were groves of foliage, of a dark green, staining -the broad gray stretch of the plain; then, in the distance, all around -the horizon, were low hills ranged in an immense circle, full of jagged -spots, of a light blue or a pale violet, standing out with a delicate -sharpness against the dark, deep blue of the sky. I can still see those -penetrating landscapes of my youth. I well know that I belong to them, -that what little of love and truth is in me comes to me from their -tranquil delights.</p> - -<p>At other times, towards evening, when the sun was sinking, we took the -broad white highway which leads to the river. Poor river, meagre as a -brook, here narrow, troubled and deep, there broad and flowing in a -sheet of silver over a bed of stones. We chose one of the hollows, on -the edge of a lofty bank which the waters had eaten away, and in it we -bathed beneath the overhanging branches of the trees. The last rays of -the sun glided between the leaves, sowing the sombre shade with luminous -specks, and rested upon the bosom of the river in broad plates of gold. -We perceived only water and verdure, little corners of the sky, the -summit of a distant mountain, the vineyards in a neighboring field. And -we lived thus in the silence and the coolness. Seated upon the bank, in -the short grass, with legs hanging and bare feet splashing in the water, -we enjoyed our youth and our friendship. What delicious dreams we -indulged in upon those shores, the gravel of which was being gradually -borne away every day by the waves! Our dreams vanish thus, borne away by -the resistless current of life!</p> - -<p>To-day these remembrances are harsh and implacable towards me. At -certain hours, in my idleness, a remembrance of that age will suddenly -come to me, sharp and dolorous, with the violence of a blow from a club. -I feel a burning sensation running across my breast. It is my youth -which is awakening in me, desolate and dying. I take my head in my -hands, restraining my sobs; I plunge with a bitter delight into the -history of those vanished days and take pleasure in enlarging the wound, -the while repeating to myself that all this is no more and will never be -again. Then, the recollection vanishes; the lightning has passed over -me; I am overwhelmed with grief, recalling nothing.</p> - -<p>Later still, at the age when the man awakens in the child, our life -changed. I prefer the first hours to those hours of passion and budding -virility; the recollections of our hunting excursions, of our vagabond -existence, are more agreeable to me than the far off vision of young -girls, whose visages remain imprinted on my heart. I see them, pale and -indistinct, in their coldness, their virgin indifference; they passed -by, knowing me not, and, to-day, when I dream of them again, I say to -myself that they cannot dream of me. I know not how it is, but this -thought makes them strangers to me; there is no exchange of -recollections, and I regard them in the light of thoughts alone, in the -light of visions which I have cherished and which have vanished.</p> - -<p>Let me also recall the society which surrounded us: those professors, -excellent men, who would have been better had they possessed more youth -and more love; those comrades of ours, the wicked and the good, who were -without pity and without soul like all children. I must be a strange -creature, fit only to love and weep, for I was softened and suffered -from the time I first walked. My college years were years of weeping. I -had in me the pride of loving natures. I was not loved, for I was not -understood and I refused to make myself known. To-day, I no longer have -any hatred; I see clearly that I was born to tear myself with my own -hands. I have pardoned my former comrades who ruffled me, wounded me in -my pride and in my tenderness; they were the first to teach me the rude -lessons of the world, and I almost thank them for their harshness. Among -them were sorry, foolish and envious lads, who must now be perfect -imbeciles and wicked men. I have forgotten even their names.</p> - -<p>Oh! let me, let me recollect. My past life, at this hour of anguish, -comes to me with a singular sensation of pity and regret, of pain and -joy. I feel myself deeply agitated, when I compare all that is with all -that is no more. All that is no more are Provence, the broad, open -country flooded with sunlight, you, my tears and my laughter of other -days; all that is no more are my hopes and dreams, my innocence and -pride. Alas! all that is are Paris with its mud, my garret with its -poverty; all that is are Laurence, infamy, my tenderness and love for -that miserable and degraded woman.</p> - -<p>Listen: it was, I believe, in the month of June. We were together on the -brink of the river, in the grass, our faces turned towards the sky. I -was talking to you. I have this instant recollected my words, and the -remembrance of them burns me like a red hot iron. I had confided to you -that my heart had need of purity and innocence, that I loved the snow -because it was white, that I preferred the water of the springs to wine -because it was limpid. I pointed to the sky; I told you that it was blue -and immense like the clear, deep ocean, and that I loved the ocean and -the sky. Then, I spoke to you of woman; I said I would have preferred -that she were born, like the wild flowers, in the open air, amid the -dew, that she were a water plant, that an eternal current washed her -heart and her flesh. I swore to you that I would love only a pure girl, -a spotless innocent, whiter than the snow, more limpid than the water of -the spring, deeper and more immense in purity than the sky and the -ocean. For a long while, I held forth enthusiastically to you thus, -quivering with a holy wish, anxious for the companionship of innocence -and immaculate whiteness, unable to pause in my dream which was soaring -towards the light.</p> - -<p>At last, I possess a companion, a spotless innocent! She is beside me -and I love her. Oh! if you could see her! She has a sombre and unfeeling -visage like a clouded sky; the waters were low and she has bathed in the -mud. My spotless innocent is soiled to such an extent that formerly I -would not have dared to touch her with my finger, for fear of dying -therefrom. Yet I love her.</p> - -<p>I am laughing; I feel a strange delight in jeering at myself. I dreamed -of luxury, and I have no longer even a morsel of cloth with which to -clothe myself; I dreamed of purity, and I love Laurence!</p> - -<p>Amid my poverty, when my heart bled and I realized that I loved, my -throat was choked, terror seized upon me. Then it was that my -remembrances rose up. I have not been able to drive them away; they have -remained with me, implacable, in a crowd, tumultuous, all entering -simultaneously into my breast and burning it. I did not summon them; -they came and I yielded to them. Every time I weep, my youth returns to -console me, but its consolations redouble my tears, for I dream of that -youth which is dead forever.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVII</h4> - -<h4><a id="CLAUDES_LOVE">CLAUDE'S LOVE</a></h4> - - -<p>I cannot stop, I cannot lie to myself. I had resolved to hide my -misfortune from myself, to seem ignorant of my wound, hoping to forget. -One sometimes kills death in its germ when one believes in life.</p> - -<p>I suffer and weep. Without doubt, by searching within myself I will find -a lamentable certainty, but I prefer to know everything to living thus, -affecting a carelessness which costs me such great effort.</p> - -<p>I wish to ascertain to what point of despair I have descended; I wish to -open my heart and there read the truth; I wish to penetrate to the -utmost depths of my being, to interrogate it and to demand from it an -account of itself. At least, I ought to discover how it happens that I -have fallen so low; I have the right to probe my wound, at the risk of -torturing myself and ascertaining that I must die of it.</p> - -<p>If, in this disagreeable task, I should make my wound greater than it -is, if my love should increase by affirming itself, I will accept this -augmented pain with joy, for the brutal truth is necessary to those who -walk unshackled in life, obeying only their instincts.</p> - -<p>I love Laurence, and I exact from my heart the explanation of this love. -I did not fall in love with her at first sight, as men fall in love with -women in romances. I have felt myself attracted little by little, -melted, so to speak, gnawed and covered gradually by the horrible -affliction. Now, I am altogether under its influence; there is not a -single fibre of my flesh which does not belong to Laurence.</p> - -<p>A month ago I was free; I kept Laurence beside me as one keeps an object -which one cannot cast into the street. At present, she has bound me to -her; I watch over her, I gaze at her when she is wrapped in slumber; I -do not wish her to leave me.</p> - -<p>All this was decreed by fate, and I think I can comprehend how love for -this woman entered into me, took slow possession of my entire being. -Amid suffering and abandonment, one cannot live with impunity beside a -woman who suffers as one does, who is abandoned as one is. Tears have -their sympathy, hunger is fraternal; those who are dying together, with -empty stomachs, warmly grasp each other's hands.</p> - -<p>I have remained five weeks in this sad and cold chamber, always in -Laurence's company. I saw only her in the whole world; she was for me -the universe, life, affection. From morning till night, I had before my -eyes the face of this woman upon which I imagined I sometimes surprised -a rapid flash of friendship. As for me, I was wretched and weak; I lived -wrapped in my coverlet, an exile from society, not even possessing the -power to go to seek my portion of the sunlight. I no longer had the -smallest hope of anything; I had limited my existence to these four dark -walls, to that corner of the sky which I saw between the chimney tops; I -had fastened myself up in my dungeon, I had there imprisoned my -thoughts, my wishes. I know not if you can thoroughly understand this: -if you are some day without a shirt, you will realize that man can -create a world, vast and full of living beings, from the bed upon which -he is stretched.</p> - -<p>I was in that condition when I met a woman as I went from the window to -the door, enveloped in my coverlet. Laurence, seated in her chair, saw -me walking about for hours together. Each time I trudged back and forth, -I passed before her and found her eyes tranquilly following me. I felt -her glance fasten itself upon me, and I was solaced in my weariness. I -cannot tell what intense and strange consolation I derived from knowing -myself regarded by a living creature, by a woman. It is from the period -of these glances that my love must date. I perceived for the first time -that I was not alone; I felt a profound satisfaction in discovering a -human creature near me.</p> - -<p>This creature was, without doubt, at first only a friend. I finally sat -down beside her, talked, and wept without concealing my tears. Laurence, -whom my sad situation and extreme poverty must have filled with pity, -answered me, wiped away my tears. She also was weary of thus dying by -inches; the silence and cold had at last begun to be tiresome to her. -Her words seemed to me more refined, her gestures more caressing than -usual; she had almost become a woman again.</p> - -<p>At this point, brothers, I was suddenly invaded by love. My sphere of -life was growing narrower each day. The earth was fleeing from me; -Paris, France, yourselves, my thoughts and my acquaintances, all were no -more. Laurence represented in my eyes God and mankind, humanity and the -Divinity; the chamber in which she was had acquired a horizon out of all -proportion. I felt myself beyond the world, almost in the embrace of -death; I no longer thought that I might one day descend into the street, -the noise of which mounted to my ears, and I had so little comprehension -that I was alive that the thought had come to me to live without eating. -It seemed to me that Laurence and I were in another part of the -celestial system, lost, separated from the living, transported to some -unknown corner beyond time and space. We could not have been more alone -in the midst of the infinite.</p> - -<p>One evening, as twilight came on, filling the chamber with a transparent -gloom, I was walking slowly about, still going from the door to the -window. In the growing obscurity, I saw Laurence's pale face, standing -out from amid her dishevelled black hair; her sombre eyes had a vague -brightness, and she looked at me thus, steadily, beautiful in her -sufferings. I stopped in my weary walk and contemplated her. I knew not -what had taken place within me; my flesh was shaken, my heart was open -and I trembled like a leaf in every limb. All of a quiver, I ran to -Laurence and clasped her in my arms. I loved her.</p> - -<p>I loved Laurence with all the strength of my abandonment and poverty. I -was suffering from hunger and cold, I was clad in a rag of wool, I felt -myself forsaken by everybody, and yet I had a sweetheart to fold to my -bosom, to love with the love of desperation! In the depths of infamy, I -had found the sweetheart who was waiting for me. Now, in the gulf, far -removed from the light, we were alone to embrace, to clasp each other, -like children who are afraid and who reassure themselves by hiding their -heads on each other's shoulders. What silence was around us, and what -gloom! How sweet it is to love in solitude, amid those deserts of -despair whither all sounds of life have ceased to penetrate! I plunged -to the depths of this supreme felicity; I loved Laurence with the -caressing delight with which the dying man must love the existence which -is escaping from him.</p> - -<p>I passed a week in a sort of dolorous ecstasy. I was tempted to stop up -the window, that we might live in the midst of darkness for the balance -of our lives; I wished to shut out the entire world and all it -contained; I wished that the garret were very much smaller, so small, in -fact, that no intruder could ever get into it to remind us that we were -mortal like the rest of mankind and womankind. I did not think myself -sufficiently miserable; I wanted more wretchedness, an excess of -affliction of the most biting and terrible description; I desired the -advent of some frightful misfortune that should strip me of all that -want had left, that should tear from me every remaining comfort and -leave Laurence and myself to live without having to thank this earth for -anything whatever! I sighed for perfect independence and complete -isolation. Then, my days would sweep by, each in its turn plunging me -deeper into my love and my poverty. I was enraptured with cold and -hunger, with the dirty mansarde, with the stains upon the walls and the -furniture. I was enraptured with the blue silk dress, that lamentable -assemblage of soiled tatters. My heart almost burst with pity when I saw -Laurence standing before me, with this rag upon her back; I asked myself -with the utmost anxiety by what kiss, by what superhuman kindness, I -could clearly and unmistakably prove to her that I adored her in her -poverty. As for me, I was happy in possessing only my coverlet: I would -be colder, I would suffer more. I recall those first days like some -strange, bewildering dream; I see the mansarde more in disorder, -gloomier than ever, I breathe the thick and suffocating atmosphere which -the window did not renew; I see Laurence and myself, like shadowy -ghosts, walking about the miserable garret in our repulsive rags, -chatting lovingly together, living in ourselves.</p> - -<p>Yes, I love her, I love her desperately. I interrogate myself, and my -palpitating heart narrates to me the horrible story, telling me how it -came about. I have enlarged my wound; now that I have searched within -myself, now that I know the reason and the depth of my love, I feel that -I have more fever, that I have become mad and reckless.</p> - -<p>A short time ago, I was shocked at the very thought of loving Laurence. -My pride is dead, for I am shocked no longer. I have descended to -Laurence's level; I understand her perfectly now, and do not wish her to -be other than she is. I take a savage joy in saying to myself that I am -now at the very bottom of the social scale, that I am satisfied there, -and that there I will remain. I appreciate Laurence the more because of -the gay and careless life she led in the past. There is, I know, -despair, a sort of bitter irony, in my love; I have the intoxication of -evil, the delirium of abandonment and hunger; I give myself up to the -existence which has suddenly welcomed me, in order to insult the light -on which my soul dotes and to which I cannot ascend.</p> - -<p>Did I not at one time speak of redemption? I wished to reform Laurence, -to lead her into better ways, to make her good and useful. What an -insane idea! It was much easier for me to become unworthy. To-day, we -love each other. Poverty betrothed us, agony married us. I love Laurence -in all her ugliness and wretchedness, I love Laurence in her blue silk -rag, in her rough degradation. I do not wish another sort of a Laurence, -I do not wish a spotless innocent with a white soul and rosy -countenance.</p> - -<p>I do not know what are my companion's thoughts, I do not know whether my -kisses delight or fatigue her. She is paler and graver than of old. With -closed lips, staring eyes and expressionless face, she returns my -caresses with a sort of repressed strength. Sometimes, she seems weary, -as if she were discouraged at searching for something which she could -not find; but soon she appears to resume her task and search anew, -looking me in the face, her hands upon my shoulders. Besides, she has -still the same weary appearance, the same dull soul; she sleeps -constantly with her eyes open, and awakes with a start when I place my -lips upon hers. When I told her of my love, she showed considerable -astonishment, then, for two weeks, she lived a younger and more active -life; a few days ago, she fell back into her eternal sleep.</p> - -<p>But what difference does this make to me? I do not as yet feel that I -need Laurence to love me. I am at that point of supreme selfishness -which, in love, is satisfied with its own tenderness. I love and desire -nothing more; I forget myself in the society of this woman and ask no -other consolation.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XVIII</h4> - -<h4><a id="JACQUES_SUPPER">JACQUES' SUPPER</a></h4> - - -<p>Last evening, there was a grand fête at Jacques' apartment. Pâquerette -came in the afternoon to tell us that our neighbors expected us to -supper at eleven o'clock. Imprisoned as I was for lack of clothing, I -did not refuse the invitation, being desirous of procuring some -amusement for Laurence.</p> - -<p>After Pâquerette's departure, we debated the important question of -pantaloons. It was decided that Laurence should cut me out a pair of -short breeches from a piece of green serge, which had long lain about -upon the floor. She went to work, and, two hours afterwards, I was -costumed like a lighterman in a shirt of doubtful whiteness, with a -strip of damask around my waist to support my breeches.</p> - -<p>Laurence then cleaned her blue silk dress, as much as possible, with a -dampened rag. She brightened it up by stretching the stuff over one of -her knees and rubbing it; she even pushed the repairs so far as to sew -around the sleeves and corsage a little lace, which had once been white -but was now yellow and rumpled.</p> - -<p>Our entrance was triumphal. Jacques and Marie pretended to believe that -a bit of pleasantry was intended; they applauded us, as actors are -applauded who attain the effect they desire to produce. I was a trifle -ashamed; I did not feel at ease until no one paid any further attention -to my short breeches of green serge.</p> - -<p>We found Pâquerette installed in an arm-chair. I know not how that -little old woman ever managed to get into the apartment of Jacques, who -is a cold young man and but little of a talker. She has the suppleness -of a serpent and a honeyed and trembling voice which force the best -closed doors. She appeared perfectly at home; she spread herself out -carefully, passing her dry hands over her skirts, partially throwing -back her head, opening and shutting her gray eyes lost among the -wrinkles of her face. She seemed to taste in advance the delicacies -placed beside her on a table.</p> - -<p>Marie, who had arisen on our arrival, seated herself again in a corner -of the sofa; the flushes on her cheeks shone more brightly than usual, -and she laughed, displaying her white teeth. Jacques, standing before -the mantelpiece, politely listened to what she had to say, always grave -but affectionate, almost smiling.</p> - -<p>They had brought forward chairs for us. The chamber was brilliantly -lighted by two candelabra, each containing five candles, placed upon the -table. This table, loaded with bottles and plates, had been pushed -against the wall to make room, there to await its opportunity to occupy -the middle of the apartment. The curtains of the bed were drawn; the -floor, the hangings and the furniture seemed to have been brushed and -washed with care. We were in the midst of luxury, in the midst of -festivity.</p> - -<p>I was about to participate, for the first time, in one of those suppers -of which I had formerly dreamed in Provence. I was calm and -self-possessed. Laurence smiled and I was happy in her joy. There is in -the brightness of candles, in the sight of bottles red with wine, of -plates full of cakes and cold meats, in the sensation produced by a -close chamber, luminous and saturated with indefinable perfumes, a sort -of physical comfort which puts thought to sleep. My companion, her lips -parted, had, doubtless, again found well-known odors in that apartment. -As for me, I felt the blood flow with increased warmth and rapidity in -my veins; I experienced an inclination to laugh and drink, urged on by -my now thoroughly awakened nature.</p> - -<p>Besides, the chamber was quiet, the bursts of gayety softened, the -entertainment decent and orderly. We drank a glass of Madeira, talking -with the utmost calmness. This tranquillity made me impatient, I was -tempted to cry out. The two young women had taken places beside -Pâquerette, and the trio were conversing in low tones. I heard the -broken voice of the old woman like a murmur, while Jacques was -explaining to me the reason of the festival. He had just passed an -examination successfully and was celebrating the event. He was more -expansive and less the practical man than usual; he abandoned his -customary gravity further, forgetting to talk of his future position, -going even so far as to speak of his youth. Jacques, to tell the plain -truth, was intoxicated with joy; he consented to play the fool, because -he was a step higher up on the ladder leading to wisdom.</p> - -<p>Finally we went to table. I had waited for this moment. I filled my -glass and drank. I was exceedingly hungry, as was natural with a man who -lived on crusts; but I disdained the cakes and the cold meats; I turned -my attention to the wine, white or red. I did not drink from need of -intoxication, I drank for the sake of drinking, because it seemed to me -that I was there to empty my glass. I acquitted myself of that task most -conscientiously, and I experienced a sensation of joy on feeling my -limbs grow weaker little by little and my ideas become confused.</p> - -<p>At the expiration of half an hour, the flames of the candles paled and -spread out, the chamber grew red in every part, a dim and vacillating -red. My reason, which had been wavering, was strengthened in a strange -fashion; it had acquired a frightful lucidity. I was intoxicated; I must -have had upon my countenance the stupid mask and idiotic smile of -drunkards; but, within me, in the depths of my intelligence, I felt -myself calm and sensible, I reasoned in full liberty. It was a terrible -species of drunkenness; I suffered from the weakening of my body, which -was greatly overcome, and from the vigor of my mind, which saw and -judged.</p> - -<p>Amid the clatter of glasses and forks, I looked at the women and -Jacques, who were laughing and chatting among themselves. Their visages -and their words came to me sharply and clearly, producing a sensation -painful in its sharpness and penetration. My love was still in me, -troubling and transforming my being; but the man of other days, the -philosophical reasoner, had been again awakened. I took delight in my -intoxication and in Laurence, at the same time thoroughly comprehending -the nature of these two disgraces.</p> - -<p>Jacques was seated at my left; I know not if he had succeeded in -intoxicating himself; however, he feigned to be under the influence of -liquor. Seated opposite to me were the three women, Marie on my right, -then Pâquerette, then Laurence, who was on Jacques' left. My looks were -fixed upon these women, who seemed to me to possess new visages and -tones of voice.</p> - -<p>I had not seen Marie since the day I had found her upon the sofa, white -and languishing. Then, she looked like a young girl in the last stage of -consumption. Now, her flaxen locks hanging loosely, her face flushed -with excitement, her cheeks tinged with a pale violet, she agitated her -bare arms with the fever of an ignorant child who is marching to her -first delight. I was bewildered by the brightness of her youthful -countenance.</p> - -<p>I cannot describe the painful sensation produced in me by this creature, -who had thrown off her agony to laugh and drink, to try to enjoy the -delicious anguish of that life which she had unconsciously lived in her -childish innocence. As I stared at her, quivering and with her hair thus -dishevelled, her eyes flashing and her lips humid, it seemed to me, in -the bewilderment of my intoxication, that I was gazing upon some -expiring creature, who, on her death bed, suddenly hears the voice of -her senses and her heart, and who, hesitating, not knowing what to do at -that supreme moment, nevertheless does not wish to die before having -satisfied her vague longings.</p> - -<p>Laurence also had grown exceedingly animated. She was almost beautiful -amid her unwonted excitement. Her visage had assumed a terrible -expression of frankness and abandonment, which imparted to each of her -features a look of the utmost insolence; her entire countenance had -become lengthened; broad, square sections, crossed by deep lines, -divided in a marked manner her cheeks and throat into firm and -disdainful masses. She was pale, and several beads of perspiration stood -on her forehead at the roots of her hair which was puffed straight up on -her low, flat head. Reclining in her arm-chair, her face dead and -distorted, her eyes black and glowing, she appeared to me like the -frightful image of a woman who has weighed in her hand all the delights -of the world and who now refuses them, finding them too light. At times, -I fancied that she looked at me, shrugging her shoulders, that she -smiled on me in pity, and that I heard her say to me, in a hoarse and -horrid whisper: "So you love me, do you? What do you want of me? -Physically I am no more than a corpse, and as for a heart, I never had -one!"</p> - -<p>Pâquerette looked thinner and more wrinkled than I had ever seen her -before. Her face, like a dried apple, seemed to be more wasted than -usual and had acquired a faint tinge of brick red. Her eyes were no -longer anything but two brilliant points. She wagged her head in a mild -and amiable way, chattering like a sharp-toned bird organ. She enjoyed, -besides, perfect calmness, although she alone had eaten and drunk as -much as all the rest of us together.</p> - -<p>I stared at all three of them. The confusion of my brain, which -exaggerated their dimensions, made them oscillate strangely before me. I -said to myself that every species of dissipation was represented at this -festival: youthful and careless dissipation, dissipation ripe in its -frankness, dissipation which has grown old and lives amid its whitened -locks on the remembrance of its follies of other days. For the first -time, I saw these women together, side by side. They alone were a whole -world in themselves. Pâquerette ruled, as became her old age; she -presided; she called the two unfortunates who caressed her "my -daughters." There was, however, intense cordiality between them; they -talked to each other like sisters, without thinking of the difference in -their ages. My bewildered glances confounded the three heads; I knew no -longer above which forehead was the white hair.</p> - -<p>Jacques and I were opposite to these women. We were young; we were -celebrating a success of intelligence. I was on the point of quitting -the apartment, brothers, and running to you. Then, I indulged in a burst -of laughter, a very loud one, without doubt, for the women stared at me -in astonishment. I said to myself that this was the kind of society amid -which I was destined, for the future, to live. I closed my eyes and saw -angels, clad in long blue robes, who were ascending in a pale light, -full of sparks.</p> - -<p>The supper had been exceedingly gay. We had sung and we had talked. It -seemed to me that the chamber was filled with a thick smoke, which -stopped up my throat and stung my eyes. Then, everything whirled about; -I thought that I was going to sleep, when I heard a distant voice, which -cried out, with the sound of a cracked bell:</p> - -<p>"We must embrace each other! we must embrace each other!"</p> - -<p>I half opened my eyes, and saw that the cracked bell was Pâquerette, -who had just climbed upon her chair. She was shaking her arms and -giggling.</p> - -<p>"Jacques! Jacques!" cried she, "embrace Laurence! She is a good girl, -and I give her to you to drive away your weariness! And you, Claude, -poor sleepy child, embrace Marie, who loves you and offers you her lips! -Come, let us embrace each other, let us embrace each other and amuse -ourselves a trifle!"</p> - -<p>And the little old woman sprang from her arm-chair to the floor.</p> - -<p>Jacques leaned over and gave a kiss to Laurence, who immediately -returned it. Then, I turned towards Marie, who, with outstretched arms -and head thrown back, was waiting for me. I was about to kiss her on the -forehead, when she threw her head still further back and offered me her -mouth. The light of the candles fell upon her face. My eyes were fixed -on her eyes, and I noticed in the depths of her glance a brightness of a -pure blue tint which seemed to me to be her soul.</p> - -<p>As I bent down, still contemplating Marie's soul, I felt the touch of -cold lips on my neck. I turned instantly; Pâquerette was there, -laughing, clapping her dry hands. She had embraced Jacques and had come -to embrace me in my turn. I wiped my neck, with a shiver of disgust.</p> - -<p>Seven o'clock struck; a wan brightness announced the advent of day. All -was over; we had now nothing to do but to separate. As I was leaving the -room, Jacques threw across my shoulder a coat and a pair of pantaloons -which I did not even think of refusing. Pâquerette ascended the stairs -in front of us, bearing a candle in her hand and holding aloft her thin -arm that she might the better illuminate our way.</p> - -<p>When we had reached our garret, I thought of the embraces we had -exchanged. I looked at Laurence; I imagined that I saw her lips red from -contact with Jacques' lips. I had still before me, in the gloom, the -blue glimmer which had burned in the depths of Marie's eyes. I trembled, -I knew not why, at the vague thoughts which came to me; then, I fell -into a restless and feverish slumber. As I slept, I again felt on my -neck the cold and painful sensation produced by Pâquerette's mouth; I -dreamed that I passed my hand over my skin, but that I could not free -myself from those frightful lips which were freezing me.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XIX</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_TRIP_TO_THE_COUNTRY">A TRIP TO THE COUNTRY</a></h4> - - -<p>Sunday, on opening the window, I saw that the spring had returned. The -air had grown warmer, though it was yet somewhat chilly; I felt amid the -last quivers of winter the first fervid glow of the sun. I breathed my -fill of this wave of life rolling in the sky; I was delighted with the -warm and somewhat biting perfumes which arose from the earth.</p> - -<p>Each spring my heart is rejuvenated, my flesh becomes lighter. There is -a purification of my entire being.</p> - -<p>At the sight of the pale, clear sky, of a shining whiteness at dawn, my -youth awakened. I looked at the tall wall; it was well-defined and neat; -tufts of grass were growing between the stones. I glanced into the -street: the stones and sidewalks had been washed; the houses, over which -the rain storms had dashed, laughed in the sunlight. The young season -had imparted its gayety to everything. I folded my arms tightly; then, -turning around, I cried out to Laurence:</p> - -<p>"Get up! get up! Spring is summoning you!"</p> - -<p>Laurence arose, while I went out to borrow a dress and a hat from Marie, -and twenty francs from Jacques. The dress was white, sown with lilac -bouquets; the hat was trimmed with broad red ribbons.</p> - -<p>I hurried Laurence, dressing her hair myself, so eager was I to get out -into the sunlight. In the street, I walked rapidly, without lifting my -head, waiting for the trees; I heard with a sort of thoughtful emotion -the sound of voices and footsteps. In the Luxembourg Garden, opposite -the great clusters of chestnut trees, my legs bent under me and I was -compelled to sit down. I had not been out of doors for two months. I -remained seated on the bench in the garden for a full quarter of an -hour, in an ecstasy over the young verdure and the young sky. I had come -out of darkness so thick that the bright spring bewildered and dazzled -me.</p> - -<p>Then, I said to Laurence that we would walk for a long, long while, -straight ahead, until we could walk no longer. We would go thus into the -warm but still moist air, into the perfumed grass, into the broad -sunlight. Laurence, who had also been aroused by the revivifying -influence of the balmy season, arose and drew me along, with hurried -steps, like a child.</p> - -<p>We took the Rue d'Enfer and the Orleans road. All the windows were open, -displaying the furniture within the houses. Upon the thresholds of the -street doors stood men in blouses, who engaged in friendly chat with -each other while smoking. We heard bursts of hearty laughter coming out -from the shops. Everything which surrounded me, streets, houses, trees -and sky, seemed to me to have been carefully cleaned. The sky had an -unusually enticing and new look, white with cleanliness and light.</p> - -<p>At the fortifications, we encountered the first grass, short yet, but -spread out like a vast carpet of light green and emitting a perfume -intoxicating in its delicious freshness. We went down into the moat, -making our way along beside the high gray walls, penetrating with -curiosity into their secluded corners. On one side was the pale-hued -stretch of wall, on the other the verdant slope. We advanced as if in a -deserted and silent street which had no houses. In some of the corners -the sun's rays had massed themselves, and had caused to shoot up tall -thistles which were peopled by a whole nation of insects—beetles, -butterflies and bees; these corners were full of buzzing sounds and -grateful warmth. But, that morning, the slope threw its delightful -shadow at our feet; we walked noiselessly upon a fine, thick turf, -having before us a narrow band of sky, against which stood out in full -light the meagre trees which rose above the wall.</p> - -<p>The moats of the fortifications are little deserts, amid which I have -very often forgotten myself and my troubles. The narrow horizon, the -shade and the silence, which render more audible the hollow murmur of -the great city and the bugles of the neighboring soldiers' barracks, -make them peculiarly dear to boys, to little and grown up children. -There, one is in an excavation at the gates of the city, feeling it pant -and start, but no longer perceiving it. For half an hour, Laurence and I -contented ourselves with this ravine which made us forget the houses and -the beaten paths; we were a thousand leagues from Paris, far from every -habitation, seeing only stones, grass and sky. Then, already -suffocating, eager for the plain, we joyously ran up the slope. The -broad country stretched out before us.</p> - -<p>We found ourselves amid the airy and unconfined lands of Montrouge. -These neglected and muddy fields are stricken with eternal desolation, -poverty and lugubrious poesy. Here and there, the soil is cleft -frightfully, as with a horrible yawn, displaying, like open entrails, -old and abandoned stone quarries, wan and deep. Not a tree is to be -seen; huge windlasses alone stand out against the low, sad horizon. The -lands have I know not what miserable aspect, and are covered with -nameless wrecks. The roads twist, plunge into hollows and stretch away -in a melancholy fashion. New huts in ruins and heaps of rubbish thrust -themselves upon the eye at each turn of the paths. Everything has a raw -look—the black lands, the white stones and the blue sky. The entire -landscape, with its unhealthy aspect, its roughly cut up sections and -its gaping wounds, has the indescribable sadness of countries which the -hand of man has torn.</p> - -<p>Laurence, who had become thoughtful in the moats of the fortifications, -timidly clung to me as we were crossing the desolated plain. We walked -on silently, sometimes turning to glance at Paris, which was grumbling -in the distance. Then, we brought back our eyes to our feet, avoiding -the gaps in the ground, contemplating with saddened souls this plain, -the open wounds of which were brutally shown by the sun. Afar off were -the churches, the Panthéons and the royal palaces; here were the ruins -of an overturned soil, which had been searched and robbed to build these -temples to men, to kings and to God. The city explained the plain; Paris -had at its threshold the desolation which all grandeur causes. I know of -nothing more mournful or more lamentable than those unconfined lands -which surround great cities; they are not yet a part of the town and -they are no longer the country; they have the dust, the mutilations of -man, and have no longer the verdure or the tranquil majesty given them -by God.</p> - -<p>We were in haste to flee. Laurence had bruised her feet; she was afraid -of this disorder, of this melancholy which reminded her of our chamber. -As for me, I found in this wretched spot my love, my troubles and my -bleeding life. We hurried away.</p> - -<p>We descended a hill. The Bièvre river flowed along at the bottom of the -valley, bluish and thick. Trees, here and there, bordered the stream; -tall houses, sombre, narrow and pierced with immense windows, loomed up -lugubriously. The valley was more discouraging than the plain; it was -damp, oily and full of disagreeable smells. The tanneries there emitted -sharp and suffocating odors; the waters of the Bièvre, that sort of -common sewer open to the sky, exhaled a fetid and powerful stench which -gave me a choking sensation. It was no longer the sad and gray -desolation of Montrouge; it was the disgusting sight of a gutter, black -with mud and refuse, bearing away with its waters horrible odors. A few -poplar trees had grown vigorously in this reeking soil, and, above, -against the clear sky, were pictured the long white lines of the -Hôpital de Bicêtre, that frightful abode of madness and death, which -worthily towers over the unhealthful and ignoble valley.</p> - -<p>Despair seized upon me; I asked myself if I should not stop where I was -and pass the day upon the borders of the sewer. I could not, it seemed, -quit Paris, I could not escape from the gutter. Filth and infamy -followed me even into the fields; the waters were corrupted, the trees -had an unhealthy vigor, my eyes encountered only wounds and suffering. -This must be the country which God now reserved for me. Each Sunday, I -would come, with Laurence on my arm, to promenade upon the banks of the -Bièvre, beside the tanneries, and to talk of love in that sink; I would -come, at the noontide hour, to seat myself with my sweetheart on the -oily ground, yielding to the awful influence of that dead creature and -of the wretched valley. I paused in terror, ready to return to Paris on -a run, and glanced at Laurence.</p> - -<p>Laurence had her weighed down look, her look of want and premature old -age. The smile she wore at her departure from the city had vanished. She -seemed weary and dull; she looked around her, calmly, without disgust. I -thought I saw her in our chamber; I realized that this slumbering soul -needed more sunlight and nature of a gentler aspect to restore the -innocence of a young girl's fifteenth year.</p> - -<p>Then, I grasped her tightly by the arm; without permitting her to turn -her head, I dragged her along, reascending the hill, always pushing -straight ahead, following the roads, crossing the meadows, in quest of -the young and virgin spring. For two hours we went along thus, in -silence, rapidly. We passed two or three villages—Arcueil, -Bourg-la-Reine, I believe; we hurried over more than twenty paths, -between white walls and green hedges. Then, as we were about to leap -across a narrow brook, in a valley full of foliage, Laurence uttered a -childish shout, a burst of laughter, and escaped from my arm, running -among the grass, all gayety, all innocence.</p> - -<p>We were upon a large square of turf, planted with trees, with tall -poplars, which arose like a jet of water, majestically, and balanced -themselves languidly in the blue air. The turf was close and thick, dark -in the shade and golden in the sunlight; one might have called it, when -the wind agitated the poplars, a broad carpet of silk with changing -reflections. All around extended cultivated lands, covered with shrubs -and plants: there was a sea of leaves at the horizon. A white house, low -and long, which was in the shade, at the edge of a neighboring grove of -trees, stood out gayly against all this green. Further away, higher up, -on the edge of the sky, across the shadows, were seen the first roofs of -Fontenay-aux-Roses.</p> - -<p>The verdure was of recent growth, it had virgin freshness and innocence; -the young leaves, pale and tender, in transparent masses, seemed like -light and delicate lace placed upon the great blue veil of the sky. The -tree trunks themselves, the rough old trunks, appeared as if newly -painted; they had hidden their wounds beneath fresh moss. It was a -universal song, a bright and caressing gayety. The stones and the lands, -the sky and the waters, all appeared neat, vigorous, healthy and -innocent. The recently awakened country, green and golden beneath the -broad azure sky, laughed in the light, intoxicated with sap, youth and -purity.</p> - -<p>And amid this youth, this purity, ran Laurence in the full light, amid -the flowing sap. She plunged into the grass, drank in the pure air; she -had again found her fifteenth year upon the bosom of this country which -had not been green fifteen days. The young verdure had refreshed her -blood; the young sunlight had warmed her heart, given roses to her -cheeks. All her being had awakened in this awakening of the earth; like -the earth, she had resumed her innocence under the mild influence of the -season.</p> - -<p>Laurence, supple and strong, ran wildly about, carried away by the new -life which was singing in her being. She lay down, she arose, with -vivacity, bursting out laughing; she stooped to pick a flower, then fled -between the trees, afterwards returning all in a rosy glow. Her entire -face was animated; its features, unbent and rendered supple, had a -healthful expression of genuine joy. Her laugh was frank, her voice -sonorous and her gestures caressing. Seated, with my back against the -trunk of a tree, I followed her with my eyes, white amid the grass, her -hat fallen upon her shoulders; I was pleased with the pretty dress, so -neat and light, which she wore chastely, and which gave her the air of a -turbulent schoolgirl. She ran to me, threw me, stalk by stalk, the -flowers she had gathered—marguerites and gold buttons, eglantines and -lilies of the valley; then, she started off again, shining in the -sunlight, pale and dim in the shade, like an insect buzzing in the -light, without the ability to pause. She filled the grass and leaves -with noise and motion; she peopled the secluded corner in which we were; -the spring had assumed more brightness, more life, since this woman, who -had as if by enchantment become a spotless child, had been laughing amid -the verdure.</p> - -<p>Fresh, blooming, all of a quiver, Laurence came to me and seated herself -at my side. She was moist with dew; her bosom rose and fell quickly, -full of young and fresh breath. From her came a delightful odor of grass -and health. I had at last beside me a woman who lived abundantly, -purely, looking straight at the light. I leaned over and kissed Laurence -on the forehead.</p> - -<p>She took the flowers, one by one, arranging them in a bouquet. The sun -was ascending, the shadows were darker; around us reigned complete -silence. Lying flat on my back, I gazed at the sky, I gazed at the -leaves, I gazed at Laurence. The sky was of a dead blue; the leaves, -already languishing, were sleeping in the sunshine; Laurence, with her -head bent down, calm and smiling, was hurrying through her task with -quick and supple movements. I could not take my eyes from that partially -reclining woman, lost amid her skirts, her forehead in gilded shade, who -seemed to me innocent and active, restored to her fifteenth year. I felt -such peace, such deep joy, that I feared either to stir or speak; I -lived in the thought that spring was in me, around me, and that Laurence -was purity itself; I lost myself in this dream of the spotlessness of my -sweetheart and the worthiness of my love. At length I loved a woman; -that woman laughed, that woman existed; she possessed the healthful -color and the frank gayety of youth. The miserable days of the past were -no more, the future appeared to me with a calm and splendid brightness. -My dreams of innocence and my love of light were about to be satisfied; -from this hour, a life of ecstasy and tenderness would commence. I -thought no more of the Bièvre, that black sewer upon the borders of -which I had had the frightful temptation to sit down and embrace -Laurence. I now wished to inhabit the white dwelling, down there, at the -edge of the grove of trees, to live in it forever with my sweetheart, -with my wife, amid the dew, amid the sunlight, amid the pure air.</p> - -<p>Laurence had finished her bouquet and tied it with a sprig of grass. It -was eleven o'clock, and we had not yet eaten anything. It was necessary -for us to quit these trees, beneath which my soul had loved for the -first time, and go in quest of an inn. I walked on ahead, across the -country, through narrow paths bordered with fields of strawberry plants. -Laurence followed me, holding up her skirts, forgetting herself at each -hedge. Suddenly, at the turn of a road, we found what we were looking -for.</p> - -<p>The Coup du Milieu, the inn we entered, is situated in a corner of land -between Fontenay and Sceaux, near the pond of Plessis-Piquet. From -without, one sees only a grove, a patch of verdure, about twenty trees -which have grown vigorously; on Sundays, a sound of knives and forks, of -laughter and songs, floats from this immense nest. Within, when one has -passed through the door surmounted by a broad sign placed across it, and -when one has descended a gentle slope, one finds himself in an alley -shaded by foliage, bordered by groves to the right and to the left; each -of these groves is provided with a long table and two benches, fastened -in the ground, reddened and blackened by the rain. At its further end, -the alley widens; there is a glade, and a swing hangs between two trees.</p> - -<p>The groves were silent and deserted. Men in blue blouses, peasants, were -swinging; a huge dog was sitting gravely in the middle of the alley. -Laurence and I sat down beneath an arbor, at a large table intended to -accommodate twenty persons. It was almost dark under the leaves, the -coolness was penetrating. In the distance, we saw, between the branches, -the country shining in the sunbeams, sleeping beneath the first rays. -The acacias of the grove had bloomed the previous day; the mild and -sweet odor of their flower clusters filled the calm and caressing air.</p> - -<p>A servant spread a napkin over the end of the table, in guise of a -cloth; then we were served with what we had ordered, mutton chops, eggs, -I cannot remember exactly what. The wine, contained in a small jug of -bluish stone, rasped the throat; a trifle rough and sharp, it stimulated -the appetite marvellously. Laurence literally devoured all that was -placed before her; I did not recognize those beautiful and hungry white -teeth, biting the bread, as my companion laughed aloud. Never had I -eaten with such enjoyment. I felt myself light in soul and body; I -surprised myself believing that I was yet a student of those old days, -when we went to bathe in the little river and dine upon the grass of the -bank. I loved the white linen on the black table, the shade of the -foliage, the iron forks, the rude crockery ware; I looked at Laurence; I -lived abundantly in the plenitude of my sensations, intensely enjoying -everything which surrounded me.</p> - -<p>At dessert, the chief cook came to receive our congratulations. He was a -tall old man, a trifle bent, clad all in white. He wore a cotton cap, -and had, pushed back upon his temples, two tufts of grayish and curled -hair, among which a few curl papers had been forgotten. Laurence laughed -for an hour at his excellent face, at once subtle and simple.</p> - -<p>I cannot tell what we did to pass away the time until evening. The day -was a day of sunshine, of bewilderment. I know not what paths we took, -what shady spots we chose to rest in. There is, when I think of those -hours of ecstasy, a dazzling splendor before my eyes. The remembrance of -details is rebellious; my entire being has the sensation of a great -felicity, of a grand light. It seems to me vaguely that Laurence and I -forgot ourselves in the midst of a ravine, among the moss, seeing only a -vast stretch of sky; we remained there, hand clasping hand, speaking but -little, intoxicated with our new experience; our eyes, turned -heavenward, were filled with brightness even to the point of blindness; -we no longer saw anything save our hearts and our thoughts. But all this -is, perhaps, a dream; my memory is treacherous—I am conscious only of -having been blind, of having caught glimpses of thousands of stars amid -the darkness.</p> - -<p>In the evening, without knowing how, we again found ourselves at the -Coup du Milieu. A crowd was there. Young women and young men filled the -groves, making a great noise and confusion; white dresses, red and blue -ribbons, stained the light green of the leaves; bursts of merry laughter -gently rippled along amid the twilight. Candles had been lighted upon -the tables, pricking with luminous points the growing obscurity. Some -Tyrolese were singing in the middle of the alley.</p> - -<p>We ate upon the end of a table, as in the morning, joining in the -general laughter, making efforts to get out of ourselves. The noisy -youth surrounding us frightened me a little; I thought I saw among my -neighbors many Jacqueses and many Maries. Between the tree branches, I -perceived a corner of the sky, pale and melancholy, as yet without -stars; I experienced much difficulty in taking my eyes from the calm -heavens to fix them upon the world of folly shouting around me. I -remember now that Laurence appeared to be excited and troubled.</p> - -<p>Then, silence was re-established; all the strangers had departed, and we -were left alone. I had resolved to sleep at the Coup du Milieu that I -might enjoy, on the morrow, the dew, the white brightness of the dawn. -While the servants were making preparations to accommodate us, Laurence -and I walked out into the garden, at the further end of which we seated -ourselves upon a bench. The night was mild, starry and transparent; -vague sounds arose from the earth; a horn, on a neighboring height, -complained in a faint and caressing tone. The plain, with its great -masses of black, motionless foliage, stretched out its mysterious -limits; it seemed to sleep, quivering, agitated by a dream of love.</p> - -<p>Our chamber was damp. It was on the ground floor, low, new and already -degraded. Pieces of furniture were absent from their appointed places. -On the ceiling lovers had traced their names by passing the flame of a -candle over the plaster; the knotty and straggling letters spread out, -broad and black. I took a knife, and, like a child, cut the date beneath -a heart-shaped window which opened upon the country, without either -grating or shutter.</p> - -<p>The bed was excellent, if the chamber did not present a handsome -appearance. In the morning, on awaking, while still half asleep, I saw, -upon the wall facing me, a sight which I could not comprehend and which -filled me with terror. The chamber was yet dark; in the midst of the -darkness, on the wall, an enormous heart was bleeding. I imagined that I -felt my breast empty, and despairingly began to search within me for my -love. I felt my love biting at my vitals, and then I realized that the -sun had risen and that its rays were pouring in copious floods through -the heart-shaped window.</p> - -<p>Laurence arose; we opened the door and the window. A current of coolness -entered, bearing into the chamber all the odors of the delightful -country. The acacias, planted almost at the threshold, exhaled a milder -and sweeter perfume than on the preceding evening. The purity of dawn -rested upon the sky and upon the earth.</p> - -<p>Laurence drank a cup of milk, and, before returning to Paris, I -expressed a desire to climb to the wood of Verrières, in order to carry -back with me, in my heart, a breath of the pure air of the morning. -Above, in the wood, we walked with lingering steps along the verdant -paths. The forest was like a beautiful bride on the day after the -wedding; it had delicious tears, a youthful languor, a damp coolness, -lukewarm and penetrating perfumes. The sunlight at the horizon slipped -along obliquely, between the trees, in broad sheets; there was I know -not what mildness in those golden rays which rolled down to earth like -supple and dazzling silken veils. And, amid the coolness, we heard the -stir of the awakening wood, those thousands of little sounds which bear -witness to the life of the springs and of the plants; above our heads -floated the songs of birds, beneath our feet were the murmurs of -insects; all around us were sudden cracklings, the gurgling noises of -flowing waters, deep and mysterious sighs which seemed to issue from the -knotty sides of the oak trees. We advanced slowly, feeling an intense -and indescribable delight in lingering amid sunlight and shadow drinking -in the fresh air, striving to seize the confused words which the -hawthorns seemed to address to us as we passed by them. Oh! the gentle -and smiling morning, all soaked with happy tears, all softened with joy -and youth! The country had reached that adorable age when old Nature has -for a few days the delicate grace of infancy.</p> - -<p>I returned to Paris with Laurence on my arm, young and strong, -intoxicated with light and spring, my heart full of dew and love. I -loved worthily, as a true man should, and I believed that I was so loved -in return.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XX</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_BITTER_AVOWAL">A BITTER AVOWAL</a></h4> - - -<p>Spring has vanished; I have awakened from my dream.</p> - -<p>I know not the limit of my pitiful childishness; I know not what -miserable soul dwells within me. The reality penetrates me, shakes me; -my flesh is either acutely tortured or wildly delighted by what is; I am -like a body of exquisite sonorousness, which vibrates at the slightest -sensation; I have a sharp and clear perception of the society which -surrounds me. And my soul is pleased to refuse the truth; it escapes -from my flesh, it disdains my senses, it lives elsewhere amid deception -and hope. It is thus that I walk through life. I know and I see, I blind -myself and I dream. While I advance beneath the rain, in the midst of -the mud, while I am profoundly conscious of all the cold, of all the -dampness, I can, by means of a strange faculty, make the sun shine, be -warm, create for myself a mild and delicate sky, without ceasing to feel -the gloomy sky which presses down upon my shoulders. I do not ignore -anything, I do not forget anything. I live doubly. I carry into my -dreams the same frankness which I carry into real sensations. I have -thus two parallel existences, equally alive, equally intense—one -which passes here below, in my poverty, another which passes above, in the -immense and deep purity of the blue sky.</p> - -<p>Yes, such is, without doubt, the explanation of my being. I comprehend -my flesh, I comprehend my heart; I am conscious of my innocence and of -my infamy, of my love for illusion and of my love for truth. I am a -delicate machine made up of sensations—sensations of the soul and -sensations of the body. I receive and give back, quiveringly, the -slightest ray, the slightest odor, the slightest tenderness. I live on -too lofty a plane, crying out my sufferings, stammering forth my -ecstasies, in heaven and amid the mud, more crushed after each new -bound, more radiant after each new fall.</p> - -<p>The other day, amid the cool air, beneath the tall trees of Fontenay, my -flesh was softened, my heart had the mastery. I loved and I believed -myself loved in my turn. The truth escaped from me; I saw Laurence -clothed in white, young and pure; her kiss appeared to me to have so -much sweetness that it seemed to come from her soul. Now, Laurence is -here, seated upon the edge of the bed; to see her, pale and sorrowful, -in her soiled dress, makes my flesh quiver, my heart leap with -indignation. The spring time has flown; Laurence has grown old, she does -not love me. Oh! what a miserable child I am! I deserve to weep, for I -cause my own tears.</p> - -<p>What do I care for Laurence's ugliness, her infamy and her weariness! -Let her be uglier, more infamous and more weary, but let her love me! I -wish her to love me.</p> - -<p>I regret neither the graces of her fifteenth year nor her youthful smile -of the other day, when she ran about beneath the trees and was the good -fairy of my youth. No, I regret neither her beauty nor her freshness; I -regret the dream which led me to believe that her heart was in her -caresses.</p> - -<p>She is here, deplorable, crushed. I have, indeed, the right to exact -that she shall love me, that she shall give herself to me. I accept her -entire being, I want her as she is, asleep and weary, but I want her, I -want her, with all my will, with all my strength.</p> - -<p>I remember that I dreamed of reforming Laurence, that I wished her to -possess more reason, more reserve. What do I care for reserve, what do I -care for reason? I have no business with them now. I demand love, mad -and lasting love. I am eager to have my love returned, I do not wish -longer to love all alone. Nothing wearies the heart like caresses which -are not returned. I gave this woman my youth, my hopes; I shut myself up -with her in suffering and abjection; I forgot everything in the depths -of our gloom, even the crowd and its opinions. I can, it seems to me, -demand in exchange from this woman that she shall unite herself with me, -that she shall join her destiny to mine amid the desert of poverty and -abandonment in which we live.</p> - -<p>Spring is dead, I tell you. I dreamed that the young foliage was growing -green in the sunlight, that Laurence laughed madly amid the tall grass. -I find myself in the damp darkness of my chamber, opposite Laurence who -is sleeping; I have not quitted the wretched den, I have not seen either -the eyes or the lips of this girl open. Everything is deception. In this -crumbling of the true and the false, in this confused noise which life -causes within me, I feel but a single need, a sharp and cruel need: to -love, to be loved, no matter where, no matter how, that I may plunge -headlong into an abyss of devotion.</p> - -<p>Oh! brothers, later, if ever I emerge from the black night which holds -me captive, and the caprice should seize upon me to relate to the crowd -the story of my far off loves, I will, without doubt, imitate those -weepers, those dreamers, who deck with golden rays the demons of their -twentieth year and put wings upon their shoulders. We call the poets of -youth those liars who have suffered, who have shed all their tears, and -who, to-day, in their recollections, have no longer anything but smiles -and regrets. I assure you that I have seen their blood, that I have seen -their bare flesh, torn and full of pain. They have lived in suffering, -they have grown up in despair. Their sweethearts were vile creatures, -their love affairs had all the horrors of the love affairs of a great -city. They have been deceived, wounded, dragged in the mud; never did -they encounter a heart, and each one of them has had his Laurence, who -has made of his youth a desolate solitude. Then, the wound healed, age -came on, remembrance imparted its caressing charm to all the infamy of -the past, and they wept over their morbid love affairs. Thus they have -created a false world of sinful young women, of girls adorable in their -carelessness and their triviality. You know them all—the Mimi Pinsons -and the Musettes—you dreamed about them when you were sixteen, and, -perhaps, you have even sought for them. Their admirers were prodigal; -they accorded them beauty and freshness, tenderness and frankness; they -have made them shining types of unselfish love, of eternal youth; they -have thrust them upon our hearts, they have taken delight in deceiving -themselves. They lie! they lie! they lie!</p> - -<p>I will imitate them. Like them, without doubt, I shall deceive myself, I -shall believe in good faith the falsehoods which my recollections will -relate to me; like them, perhaps, I shall have cowardice and timidity -which will induce me not to speak loudly and frankly, telling what were -my love affairs and how utterly miserable they were. Laurence will -become Musette or Mimi; she will have youth, she will have beauty; she will -no longer be the mute, wretched woman who is now in my company—she -will be a giddy young girl, loving thoughtlessly, but thoroughly alive, -rendered more youthful and more adorable by her caprices. My den will be -transformed into a gay mansarde, blooming, white with sunlight; the blue -silk dress will be changed into a neat and graceful calico; my poverty -will be full of smiles, my tenderness will sparkle like a diamond. And I -will sing in my turn the song of my twentieth year, taking up the -refrain where the others have left it, continuing the sweet and lying -words, deceiving myself, deceiving those who shall come after me.</p> - -<p>Brothers, in these letters written for you alone, which I prepare day by -day, quivering yet from the terrible shocks I have received, I can be -rough, sharp, revealing everything, emphasizing my confessions. I give -myself up wholly, I spread my entire life out before you, I exhibit to -you my flesh and my blood: I wish to take my heart from my breast, to -show it to you, bleeding, sick, frank in its baseness and in its purity. -I feel myself better and worthier in confessing myself to you; I have an -immense pride amid my abasement; the deeper I descend, the more disdain, -the more superb indifference, I acquire. What a delicious thing is -frankness! Say to yourselves that, out of ten young men, eight have the -same life, the same youth, as I: some two or three in a hundred, -perhaps, become frightened and weep as I weep; the others, several -thousands, accept their lot and live in peace, infamous and smiling. All -lie. As for me, I wound myself, I admit to you with sobs what are my -love affairs, and tell you with what a terrible weight they stifle me.</p> - -<p>Later, I will lie.</p> - -<p>Nothing exists now, except the love of Laurence, which I have not and -which I exact. There is no more light, there is no longer a world, there -is no longer a crowd; in the gloom, a man and a woman are brought face -to face forever. The man, setting aside all his lofty aspirations, all -his appreciation of beauty, wishes to be loved by the woman, because he -is afraid of being alone, because he is cold and hungry, because he -loves himself. At the final day, when humanity is expiring, and when but -a single couple remain upon the earth, the struggle will be terrible, -the despair immense, if the last adorer cannot awaken the last -sweetheart from the dull sleep of the heart and the flesh.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXI</h4> - -<h4><a id="A_HORRIBLE_PROPOSITION">A HORRIBLE PROPOSITION</a></h4> - - -<p>Marie changed her chamber yesterday; she now lodges upon the same -landing as I, in an apartment separated from mine by a simple partition. -The poor child is dying; she gives vent to a light and hollow cough, -with a sort of rattling in her throat after each attack of coughing. -Jacques, whose studious quietude was disturbed by this cough, decided -that the invalid would be more at her ease alone in a separate chamber. -He has engaged Pâquerette to watch over and take care of her.</p> - -<p>Last night, I heard for long hours Marie's cough and the rattling in her -throat. Laurence slept on tranquilly. The sound of each half stifled fit -which passed through the partition filled me with indescribable sadness.</p> - -<p>This morning, on arising, I went to see the dying girl. She was in bed, -white, resigned, still smiling. Her head, raised upon two pillows, had a -sort of gentle languor; her thin and almost transparent arms were -stretched out on the sheet beside her poor body, the sharp and -lamentable outlines of which could be seen beneath the covers.</p> - -<p>The chamber was dark and cold. It resembles mine, but is better -furnished, less dirty. A large window opens upon the high wall, which -looms up gloomily a few mètres from the front of the house.</p> - -<p>Marie was alone, motionless, her eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling -with that pensive and heart-rending air of invalids who already see -beyond life. Pâquerette had just gone down-stairs to get her breakfast. -On a small table, placed near an arm-chair, were an army of bottles, a -single glass and the remains of food. The thought came to me that -Pâquerette took more care of herself than of the dying girl.</p> - -<p>I kissed Marie's forehead; I seated myself upon the edge of the bed, -taking and holding one of her hands. She turned her head slowly and -smiled upon me, telling me that she was not in pain, that she was -resting herself. Her voice, a trifle hoarse, was reduced to a feeble and -caressing murmur. Her forehead inclined, she looked at me with her -feverish and enlarged eyes; astonishment and tenderness were mingled in -her full glances. My heart was wrung with pity at the sight of this poor -creature. I felt that I was on the point of bursting into tears.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette returned, loaded with new bottles and fresh food. She opened -the window, complaining of the bad air; she established herself -comfortably in the arm-chair, before the table; then, she began to eat -noisily, talking as she chewed, questioning Marie about her adorers, -about her past life. She seemed to ignore that the poor girl was sick; -she treated her like a lazy creature who loves to lie in bed and be -pitied. I looked with disgust at this woman, wrapped up in herself, -licking her greasy fingers, chuckling, bantering the dying girl with her -mouth full, and casting at me sullen and cynical glances, those -desperate glances which certain old women yet have in their reddened -eyes.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette, ceasing to eat, partially turned her arm-chair; then, -crossing her hands upon her skirts, she looked at us, at Marie and -myself, first at one and afterwards at the other, laughing a wicked -laugh.</p> - -<p>"Ah! my dear," said she to the sick girl, pointing at me her bony -finger, "isn't he a handsome young fellow! His heart is widowed and has -need of new love affairs!"</p> - -<p>Marie smiled sadly, closing her eyes, withdrawing her hand which mine -had kept.</p> - -<p>"You are deceived," I answered Pâquerette, after a moment's silence; -"my heart is not widowed. I love Laurence."</p> - -<p>Marie lifted her eyelids, and restored to me her fingers, which I found -more agitated, hotter, than before.</p> - -<p>"Laurence! Laurence!" sneered the old woman; "she is making a fool of -you! You are like all the rest of the men. They love those who betray -and abandon them. Look for another sweetheart, my poor Monsieur, look -for another sweetheart!"</p> - -<p>I did not hear distinctly, according ordinarily no attention whatever to -the chatter of this old woman. And yet, though I know not why, I felt a -vague uneasiness. An unknown warmth filled my being with a painful -quiver.</p> - -<p>"Listen, my children," added Pâquerette, taking her ease: "I am a kind -hearted woman, and it displeases me to see you made game of. You are -very nice, both of you, gentle as lambs, good as bread. It has been my -dream to see you married, and I well know that two better little -creatures were never brought together. So, Monsieur, accept Madame. -Every day, I meet Laurence and Jacques caressing each other on the -stairway!"</p> - -<p>I glanced at Marie. She was calm; the beating of her pulse had not -increased. She seemed to be dreaming with her eyes fixed on me, and, -perhaps, she saw me in her dream. The kisses which Jacques might have -given to Laurence did not disturb the tranquil friendship which she felt -for him.</p> - -<p>As for me, I felt the insupportable warmth mount to my breast and stifle -me. I knew not what was the sudden numbness which gave me a dull, deep -pain, penetrating even to my soul. I thought neither of Laurence nor -Jacques; I listened to Pâquerette and the suffocation augmented, -stopping up my throat.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette slowly rubbed her withered hands; her gray eyes, sunken -beneath her flabby eyelids, shone strangely in her yellow visage. She -resumed, in a voice more cracked than ever:</p> - -<p>"You stare at each other like a couple of stupid innocents! Have you not -understood, Claude? Jacques has taken Laurence from you; take Marie. Ah! -the little one smiles: she asks nothing better. In the way I suggest, no -one will be left disconsolate, no one will have any reproaches to make. -That's the fashion in which everything should be arranged in this life!"</p> - -<p>Marie impatiently lifted her hand, making her a sign to stop. The old -woman's sharp voice imparted a quiver to her emaciated flesh. Then, her -countenance assumed an expression of melancholy peace, an air of calm -ecstasy; she gazed at me thoughtfully, and said to me, in a penetrating -tone, a tone which I had never known her voice to possess:</p> - -<p>"Will you, Claude? I will love you so much!"</p> - -<p>And she sat upright.</p> - -<p>A fit of coughing threw her back upon the bed, her body horribly shaken, -all panting with pain. With arms open and twisted, with head thrown -backward, she was suffocating. Her partially uncovered breast, that poor -breast which suffering had made so infantile, so pure, rose and fell -frightfully as if torn by a furious tempest. Then, the terrible cough -passed away, and the girl stretched herself out, pale, her cheeks -violet, as if overwhelmed with fatigue and insensibility.</p> - -<p>I had remained seated upon the edge of the bed, shaken myself by the -torture of the dying girl. I had not dared to stir, nailed to my place -by pity and fright. What I had before me was so profoundly horrible and -so infinitely touching, so lamentable and so repulsive, that I know not -how to explain the holy fear which held me where I was, grieved, full of -disgust and compassion. I was tempted to beat Pâquerette, to drive her -away; I felt inclined to embrace Marie as a brother would embrace his -sister, to give her my blood to restore life and freshness to her -expiring flesh.</p> - -<p>So I had reached this point: a miserable old woman, whose career had -been one long dissipation, offered me the opportunity to exchange my -heart for another heart, to give up my sweetheart to one of my friends -and thus secure his of him; she showed me all the advantages of this -bargain, she laughed at the excellent joke. And the sweetheart whom she -wished to give me already belonged to death. Marie was dying, and Marie -extended her arms to me. Poor innocent! her strange purity hid from her -all the horror of her kiss. She offered her lips like a child, not -understanding that I would rather have died than touch her mouth, I, who -loved Laurence so much! Her pale flesh, burned by fever, had been -purified by suffering; but she was already dead, so to speak, -sanctified, and so pure that I would have deemed it sacrilegious to -reawaken in her a final quiver of earthly delight.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette curiously watched Marie's crisis. That woman does not -believe in the sufferings of others.</p> - -<p>"Something she ate choked her," she said, forgetting that the sick girl -had swallowed no solid food for two weeks.</p> - -<p>At these words, a blind rage took possession of me. I felt like slapping -that yellow, sneering face, and, as the wretched creature opened her -lips again:</p> - -<p>"Be quiet, will you!" I cried out to her, in a ringing and indignant -voice.</p> - -<p>The old woman drew back her arm-chair in terror. She stared at me, full -of fear and indecision; then, seeing that I was in earnest, she made a -gesture such as a drunken man might make and stammered, in a drawling -tone:</p> - -<p>"Then, if joking is prohibited, why don't you say so in plain words? As -for me, I always have a joke upon my lips, and so much the worse for -those who weep say I! You don't want Marie; very well, let us say no -more about it."</p> - -<p>And she pushed the arm-chair before the table; then, she poured out a -glass of wine, which she sipped slowly.</p> - -<p>I bent over Marie, whom suffering had put to sleep. There was a low -rattle in her throat. I kissed her on the forehead like a brother.</p> - -<p>As I was about going away, Pâquerette turned towards me.</p> - -<p>"Monsieur Claude," she cried, "you are not amiable, but, nevertheless, I -will give you a piece of good advice. If you love Laurence, keep a sharp -eye upon her!"</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXII</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_SHADOWS_ON_THE_WALL">THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL</a></h4> - - -<p>I am jealous—jealous of Laurence!</p> - -<p>That Pâquerette has filled me with the most frightful torment. I have -descended, one by one, all the rounds of the ladder of despair; now, my -infamy and my sufferings are complete.</p> - -<p>I know the name of that unknown warmth which filled my breast and -stifled me. That warmth was jealousy, a burning wave of anguish and -terror. This wave has rolled upward, it has invaded my entire being. -Now, there is no portion of me which is not in pain and jealous, which -does not complain of the horrible pressure beneath which all my flesh -cries out.</p> - -<p>I know not in what manner others are jealous. As for me, I am jealous -with all my body, with all my heart. When doubt has once entered into -me, it watches, it works pitilessly; it wounds me every second, searches -me, constantly making further encroachments. The pain is physical; my -stomach is convulsed, my limbs grow heavy beneath me, my head feels -hollow, weakness and fever seize upon me. And, above these afflictions -of the nerves and muscles, I feel the anguish of my heart, deep and -terrifying, which weighs me down, burns me incessantly. A single idea -turns upon itself in the immense emptiness of my thoughts: I am no -longer loved, I am deceived; my brain beats like a bell with this one -sound, all my vitals have the same quiver, twisted and torn. Nothing -could be more painful than these hours of jealousy which strike me -doubly, in my body and in my affection. The suffering of the flesh and -the suffering of the heart are united in a sensation of overwhelming -weight, which is inexorable, crushing me constantly. And I hold my -breath, abandoning myself, descending deeper and deeper into my -suspicions, aggravating my wound, withdrawing myself from life, living -only in the thought which is ruthlessly gnawing me.</p> - -<p>If I suffered less, I would like to know of what my suffering is -composed. I would take a bitter pleasure in interrogating my body, in -questioning my tenderness. I am curious to see the uttermost depths of -my despair. Without doubt, a thousand wretched things are there—love, -selfishness, self-love, cowardice and evil passions, to say nothing of -the rebellion of the senses, of the vanities of the intelligence. This -woman who is going away from me, weary of my caresses, and who prefers -another to me, wounds me in every portion of my being; she disdains me, -she declares by her acts that she has found a love sweeter, purer, than -mine. Besides, there is, above all, a feeling of immense solitude. I -feel myself forsaken, I quiver with fright; I cannot live without this -creature, whom I have taken pleasure in regarding as an eternal -companion; I am cold, I tremble; I would rather die than remain -deserted.</p> - -<p>I exact that Laurence shall be mine. I have only her in the whole world, -and I cling to her as a miser clings to his beloved gold. My heart -bleeds when I think that, perhaps, Pâquerette is right, and that -to-morrow I shall be shorn of love. I do not wish to remain all alone in -my poverty, in the depths of my abjection. I am afraid.</p> - -<p>And, nevertheless, I cannot close my eyes to the terrible reality, I -cannot live in ignorance. Certain young men, when they feel that a woman -is necessary to them, accept her such as she is; they do not care to -risk their peace of mind by probing into her past life. So far as I am -concerned, I realize that I have not sufficient strength to ignore -anything. I doubt. My unfortunate mind urges me to disabuse or convince -myself; I must know everything about Laurence, that I may die if she has -resolved to abandon me.</p> - -<p>In the evening, I pretend to go out for a walk, and slip furtively into -Marie's apartment. Pâquerette is dozing; the dying girl smiles feebly -upon me, without turning her head. I go to the window and there -establish myself. From the window I keep a close watch, leaning out to -see into the courtyard and into Jacques' chamber. Sometimes, I partly -open the door and listen to the sounds on the stairway. These are cruel -hours. My excited mind toils laboriously, my limbs tremble with anxiety -and prolonged attention. When voices ascend from Jacques' chamber, -emotion stops up my throat. If I hear Laurence leave our mansarde and -she does not appear upon the threshold below, a burning sensation shoots -through my breast: I have counted the steps, and I say to myself that -she has stopped on the fourth floor. Then, I lean over into the -courtyard at the risk of falling; I long to climb in through that window -which opens five mètres below me. I imagine I hear the sound of kisses, -I think I catch my name uttered amid mocking laughter. Then, when -Laurence at last shows herself upon the threshold, in the courtyard, the -burning sensation shoots through me again. I remain leaning out of the -window, panting, broken. She surprises me, for I did not expect to see -her. I commence to doubt: I no longer know if I correctly counted the -steps she had to descend.</p> - -<p>For a long while, I have played this cruel game with myself. I placed -myself in ambush, and, the blood mounting to my eyes, I can no longer -recall what I saw. Conviction flees from me; suspicions are born and -die, more devouring each day. I have an infernal aptitude for spying out -and arguing concerning the causes of my suffering; my mind greedily -seizes upon the slightest facts; it masses them together, links them in -a continuous chain, draws marvellous conclusions from them. I execute -this little task with an astonishing lucidity; I compare, I discuss, I -accept, I reject, like a veritable examining magistrate. But, as soon as -I think I have possession of a certainty, my heart bursts out, my flesh -quivers, and I am no more than a child who weeps on feeling the reality -escape from him.</p> - -<p>I would like to penetrate into the lives of my companions, to examine -the mysteries; I am curious to analyze all I am ignorant of, I am -strangely delighted by those delicate operations of the intelligence -searching for an unknown solution. There is an exquisite enjoyment in -weighing each word, each breath; one has but a few vague grounds for -suspicion, and one arrives, by a slow, sure and mathematical march, at -the knowledge of the entire truth. I can employ my sagacity in the -service of my brethren. When I am concerned, however, I am agitated by -such deep emotion that I am unable either to see or hear.</p> - -<p>Last evening, I remained for two hours in Marie's chamber. The night was -dark and damp. Opposite, upon the bare wall, Jacques' window threw a -great square patch of yellow light. Shadows came and went in this square -patch; they had a fantastic look and extraordinary dimensions.</p> - -<p>I had heard Laurence close our door, and she had not gone down into the -courtyard. I recognized Jacques' shadow on the wall, long and straight, -tossing about with sharply defined and precise movements. There was -another shadow, a shorter one, slower and more undecided in its motions; -I thought that I also recognized this shadow, which seemed to me to have -an unruly head increased in size by a woman's chignon.</p> - -<p>At times, the square patch of yellow light stretched out, pale and wan, -empty and calm. I leaned out of the window, breathlessly; I stared with -painful attention, suffering from the emptiness and calmness of the -light, wishing with anguish that a black mass would appear, betraying to -me its secret. Then, suddenly, the square was peopled: a shadow passed -over it, two shadows mingled together, out of all proportion and so -strangely confused that I could neither seize the forms nor explain the -movements. My mind sought with despair for the meaning of these dark -stains which lengthened, broadened, sometimes permitting me to catch a -partial glimpse of a head or an arm. The head and the arm instantly lost -shape, melted into one perplexing spot of blackness. I no longer saw -anything but a sort of oscillating wave of ink, spreading in every -direction, smearing the wall. I strove to comprehend, and thought I -distinguished monstrous silhouettes of animals, strange profiles. I lost -myself in this distressing vision, this fearful nightmare; I followed -with terror those masses which danced without noise; I trembled at the -thought of what I was about to discover; I wept with rage on realizing -that all this had no meaning whatever, and that I would learn nothing. -Suddenly, the wave of ink, in a final leap, in a last contortion, flowed -along the wall, along the darkness. The square patch of yellow light was -again deserted and dull. The shadows had passed away, without revealing -anything to me. I leaned forward, overflowing with despair, awaiting the -terrible spectacle, saying to myself that my life depended upon those -black stains which were capering about on the yellowed walls.</p> - -<p>A sort of madness finally took possession of me in the presence of this -ironical drama which was being played opposite to me. These strange -personages, these rapid and incomprehensible scenes, mocked me; I wished -to put an end to this lugubrious farce. I felt myself broken by emotion, -devoured by doubt.</p> - -<p>I quietly left Marie's chamber; I removed my shoes and placed them upon -the landing; then, oppressed, anxious, I began to descend the stairway, -pausing upon every step, hearing the very silence, frightened by the -slightest sounds that mounted to me. Arrived in front of Jacques' door, -after five long minutes of fear and hesitation, I bent down slowly, -painfully, and heard the bones of my neck crack. I applied my right eye -to the keyhole, but saw only darkness. Then, I glued my ear against the -wood of the door: the silence seemed filled with buzzing sounds, but -there was in my head a great murmur which prevented me from hearing -distinctly. Flames passed before my eyes, a hollow and increasing -rumbling filled the corridor. The wood of the door burned my ear, it -appeared to me to be vibrating in every part. Behind that door I thought -I caught at times half stifled sighs; then, death seemed to me to have -passed through that chamber and left there intense and terrible silence. -And I knew no more. I could tear nothing definite from the frightful -stillness, from the oppressive gloom. I do not know how long I remained -bent down against the door; I remember only that the icy coldness of the -floor froze my feet and that a tremendous quaking shook my body, which -was covered with a cold perspiration. Anguish and terror held me nailed -to the spot, shrinking within myself, not daring to move, twisted by -jealousy, quivering as if I had just committed a crime.</p> - -<p>At last, I reascended the stairway, staggering, bruising myself against -the walls. I again opened Marie's window, still having need of -suffering, unable to withdraw myself from the biting delight of my -torments. The wall opposite was a sheet of blackness; the curtain had -fallen upon the drama, and night reigned. As I went out of the room, I -gazed at Marie who was slumbering peacefully, with clasped hands. I -believe that I knelt before the bed, addressing to I know not what -divinity a prayer, the words of which came spontaneously to my lips.</p> - -<p>I went to bed, shivering, and closed my eyes. I saw, through my eyelids, -the glimmer of the candle, placed upon a little table opposite me, and I -thus had a broad pink horizon which I peopled with lamentable figures. I -possess the sad power of dreaming, the faculty of creating from -fragments of every kind personages who almost breathe the breath of -actual life; I see them, I touch them; they play like living actors the -scenes which are passing through my mind. I suffer and I enjoy with -greater intensity as my ideas materialize themselves and as I perceive -them, my eyes closed, with all my senses, with all my flesh.</p> - -<p>Amid the pink glimmer, I saw Laurence and Jacques. I saw the chamber -which had appeared to me dark, silent, and now it was full of laughter, -of brilliancy. My companion and my friend, in a flood of sparkling -light, were chatting lovingly together; they sat there before my eyes, -playing their rôles in the miserable drama which my dismayed mind -dreamed. It was no longer a simple thought, an idea arising from heart -jealousy, but a series of horrible, living pictures of frightful -distinctness. I was shocked and cried out; I felt that the drama was -being enacted within me, that I could veil these images, but I took a -morbid delight in bringing them into bold relief, in giving their -outlines greater clearness, in bestowing upon them the hues of actual -life; I plunged at will into the horrible spectacle I had called up, -that I might suffer further torture. My doubts were transformed into -flesh and blood; I knew and I saw at last; I had found in my imagination -the full certainty for which I had vainly searched at Marie's window and -Jacques' door.</p> - -<p>Laurence entered and shut the door roughly. She brought in with her from -without an indescribable odor of tobacco and liquor. I did not open my -eyes, listening to the sound of her footsteps and the rustling of her -garments while she was disrobing. I looked at the pink glimmer, and, -beyond it, it seemed to me that I saw this woman, when she passed before -me, laugh in scornful pity and mock me with a gesture, believing that I -was asleep.</p> - -<p>She sat down in a chair, uttering a slight sigh, and leisurely concluded -her preparations for the night. Then, all the pain I had experienced -during that terrible evening returned and mounted to my throat. An -utterly boundless rage took entire possession of me at the sight of this -cold and treacherous creature calmly taking her ease, and seeming to -have wholly forgotten me. I sat up in bed, clenching my fists.</p> - -<p>"Where have you been?" I asked Laurence, in a hollow voice, trembling -with anger.</p> - -<p>She slowly opened her eyes, which were already half-closed, and stared -at me for an instant, astonished, without replying. Then, with a shrug -of her shoulders, she answered:</p> - -<p>"I have been to the fruit-woman's up the street. She invited me -yesterday to visit her, this evening, and drink coffee with her."</p> - -<p>I saw her face from forehead to chin: her weary eyelids hung down, so -heavy with sleep were they; her features wore an expression of satiety -and satisfaction. I felt the blood blind me to see her so contented, -caring so little for having forsaken me. Her neck, broad and puffed up, -was extended towards me, soliciting me to commit a crime; it was thick -and short, impudent and shameless; it shone insolently, mocking and -defying me. Everything which surrounded me had disappeared; I no longer -saw anything but that neck.</p> - -<p>"You lie!" I cried.</p> - -<p>And I seized the neck with my bent fingers, red flashes passing before -my eyes. I shook Laurence violently, grasping her with all my strength. -She did not offer the slightest resistance, but swayed to and fro -beneath my hands, without a complaint, flabby and brutalized. I know not -what pleasure I experienced on feeling her warm and supple body bend, -yield to the force of my mad rage. Then, an icy shiver penetrated me and -I was filled with fear: I thought I saw blood trickle along my fingers; -I threw myself back upon the pillow, sobbing, intoxicated with grief.</p> - -<p>Laurence put her hand to her neck. She took three long breaths; then, -she sat down again, turning her back to me, without a word, without a -tear.</p> - -<p>I had shaken her hair loose. Upon the nape of her neck I perceived a -bluish trace, made darker by the shadow of her locks which half -concealed her shoulders. My tears blinded me, my heart was full of -strong and tender compassion. I wept over myself who had just ill -treated a woman, I wept over Laurence whose bones I had heard cry out -beneath my fingers. My entire being was a prey to keen remorse; my -tortured soul despairingly sought to repair what could never be -forgotten. I recoiled, in disgust and fright, from the wild beast which -I had felt awaken and die within me; I suffered from terror, shame and -pity.</p> - -<p>I approached Laurence; I clasped my arms around her, whispering in her -ear, in a doleful and caressing tone. I know not what I said to her. My -heart was full and I emptied it. My words were a long prayer, ardent and -humble, meek and violent, overflowing with pride and baseness. I spoke -of the past, of the present, of the future; I told the story of my -heart, without the least reserve; I probed the utmost depths of my -being, in order that I might hide nothing. I had need of pardon, I had -also need of pardoning my companion. I accused Laurence, I demanded -loyalty and frankness of her. I told her how much she had made me weep. -I did not address reproaches to her the better to excuse myself; my lips -opened in spite of me, all the present filled me, my daily thoughts -united in a single tender and resigned complaint, free from even the -least trace of anger, the least trace of animosity. My reproaches and -confessions were mingled with sudden outpourings of love and tenderness; -I spoke the puerile and indescribable language of excitement, soaring to -the very sky, dragging myself along the ground; I made use of the -adorable and ridiculous poesy of children and lovers; I was mad, -passionate, intoxicated. And I went on thus, as in a dream, questioning, -answering, speaking in a deep and regular voice, pressing Laurence -against my bosom. For a whole hour I heard the words which, of -themselves, flowed from my mouth, gentle, touching; I solaced myself by -listening to this penetrating music; it seemed to me that my poor, -wounded heart was rocking itself and putting itself to sleep.</p> - -<p>Laurence, impassible, her eyes open, stared at the wall. My voice did -not appear to reach her. She sat there as mute, as dead, as if she had -been in the midst of thick darkness, in the midst of profound silence. -Her hard forehead, her cold and tightly closed lips, announced her firm -resolution not to listen, not to reply.</p> - -<p>Then, I felt a keen desire to obtain a word from this woman. I would -have given my blood to hear the sound of Laurence's voice; all my being -went out towards her, conjured her, begged her with clasped hands, to -speak, to utter but a single syllable. I wept at her silence; a sort of -vague uneasiness gained upon me as she became more sullen, more -impenetrable. I felt myself gliding towards madness, towards a fixed -idea; I had imperious need of a response; I made superhuman efforts, -uttered prayers and threats, to obtain the satisfaction of this need -which was devouring me. I multiplied my questions, emphasized my demands -and changed the form of my interrogations, rendering them more urgent; I -had recourse to all my gentleness, to all my violence, imploring, -ordering, speaking in a caressing and submissive tone, then allowing -myself to be carried away by anger, and afterwards making myself more -humble, more insinuating still. Laurence, without a quiver, without a -glance, seemed to ignore my presence. All my will, all my furious -desire, to make her speak broke against the pitiless deafness of this -creature who refused to listen to me.</p> - -<p>This woman was escaping from me. I saw an insurmountable barrier between -her and me. I held her form tightly clasped, I felt that form abandon -itself with disdain to my embrace. But I could not open that soul and -take possession of it; the heart and the mind had hidden themselves -away; I pressed only a lifeless rag, so weary, so dull, that it was as -nothing in my arms. And I loved this limp rag, I wished to keep it. I -clung with despair to the sole creature who remained to me in the world, -I exacted that she should belong to me, I had the fury of a miser when I -thought that I was about to be robbed of her and that she was quite -willing to allow herself to be stolen. I rebelled, I summoned all my -strength to defend my own. And I was pressing a corpse to my bosom, an -unknown thing which was a stranger to me and which I could not -understand. Oh! brothers, you are ignorant of this suffering, of these -bursts of love for an inanimate statue, of this cold resistance on the -part of an adored being, of this silence in answer to so many sobs, of -this voluntary death which might love, which one supplicates with all -his eloquence and which loves not.</p> - -<p>When my voice failed me, when I despaired of ever animating Laurence, I -laid my head upon her breast, my ear against her heart. There, leaning -on this woman, my eyes open, staring at the wick of the candle which was -burning to a coal, I spent the night in thinking. I heard the rattle in -Marie's throat, broken by fits of coughing, which came to me through the -partition, lulling my thoughts.</p> - -<p>I thought. I listened to the regular beating of Laurence's heart. I knew -that nothing was there but a wave of blood; I said to myself that I was -following in their rhythm the sounds of a well regulated machine, and -that the voice which reached me was only the ticking of an unconscious -clock, obeying a mere spring. And, nevertheless, I was disturbed; I -would have liked to take the machine apart, to search out and study its -most minute pieces; I thought seriously, in my delirium, of opening the -breast upon which my head reposed, of removing the heart that I might -see why it beat so gently and so regularly.</p> - -<p>Marie's rattle continued, and Laurence's heart beat almost in my head. -On hearing these two sounds, which were sometimes mingled together and -made but one, I thought of life.</p> - -<p>I know not why an insatiable longing for innocence pursues me in my -abasement. I have constantly in my brain the thought of immaculate -purity, lofty, inaccessible, and this thought awakens more biting in the -depths of each of my fits of despair.</p> - -<p>While I leaned my head upon Laurence's faded bosom, I said to myself -that woman was born for a single love.</p> - -<p>There is the truth, the only possible marriage. My soul is so exacting -that it wishes all the creature it loves, in her infancy, in her sleep, -in her entire life. It goes so far as to accuse dreams, so far as to -declare that a sweetheart is guilty who has received in a vision the -kiss of a shadowy adorer.</p> - -<p>All young girls, even the purest and most sincere, have been the -recipients of attentions from the phantom lovers of their dreams; those -demons have held them in their arms, have made their innocent flesh -quiver, have given them the first caresses. Hence, when they find -husbands, they are no longer innocent, they no longer possess holy -ignorance.</p> - -<p>As for me, I wished my bride to come to me as she had left the hands of -God; I wished her spotless, refined, not yet alive, and I would awaken -her. She would live in me, she would know me alone, she would have no -recollections save those which came to her through me. She would realize -the divine dream of an eternal marriage of the soul and body, drawing -everything from itself. But when a woman's lips have known other lips, -when she has trembled like a leaf at the kisses of others, love can be -nothing but daily anguish, hourly jealousy. Laurence does not belong to -me, she belongs to her remembrances; she twists in my arms, thinking, -perhaps, of former tendernesses; she is constantly escaping from me; she -has a whole life which has not been mine; she and I are not one flesh. -I love her and tear myself; I sob at the sight of this creature whom I -do not possess, whom I can no longer possess in her entirety.</p> - -<p>The candle smoked, the chamber was full of thick, yellowish air. I heard -the rattling in Marie's throat, now coming to me through the partition -in jerky sounds. I listened to Laurence's heart, but could not -understand its language. This heart spoke, without doubt, an unknown -tongue; I held my breath, I gave my intelligence altogether to it, but I -utterly failed to grasp its meaning. Perhaps it was relating to me the -past of my wretched and treacherous companion, her story of shame and -misery. It beat slowly and ironically, letting the syllables fall from -it with an effort; it made no haste to finish, it seemed to take delight -in the recital of the horrible tale. I divined at times what it might be -saying. I had ignored the past, I had refused to become acquainted with -it, I had striven to forget it; but it voluntarily evoked itself, it -presented itself to my mind such as it must have been. I knew what -infamies it was necessary for me to imagine; but, amid the ignorance in -which I had shut myself up, I, without doubt, went beyond the real and -fell into a nightmare, exaggerating the evil. At this hour, I wished to -know everything, to obtain a complete revelation of the truth in all its -horror. I listened with the utmost attention to the cynical and heavy -heart, which was narrating to me in a low voice and an unknown language -the long and doleful story, but I could not follow the thread of the -narrative, I could only imagine a few words which I thought I -distinguished amid the unintelligible confusion of sounds.</p> - -<p>Then, suddenly, Laurence's heart changed its language. It spoke of the -future, and I understood it. It beat distinctly, talking more rapidly, -with more violence, more irony. It said that it was going to the gutter -and that it was in haste to arrive there. Laurence would quit me on the -morrow, she would resume her life of chance; she would belong to the -crowd, she would descend the few steps which yet separated her from the -bottom of the sewer. Then, she would be a brute, she would no longer -feel anything, and she would declare herself perfectly happy and -contented. She would die some night upon the sidewalk, drunken and worn -out. The heart told me that the body would go to the dissecting-room, -and that the physicians would cut it to pieces to discover what bitter -and nauseous things it contained. At these accursed words, I saw -Laurence turned blue, dragged through the mud, covered with infamous -stains, stretched out, cold and stiff, upon the white marble slab of the -dissecting-table. The physicians were plunging sharp knives into the -bosom of her I loved so much as to be ready to lay down my life for her, -into the breast of the woman whom I held in my arms with the clutch of -desperation.</p> - -<p>The vision enlarged its scope; the chamber became filled with phantoms. -A world of dissipation passed before me in a long, desolate procession. -Life, with all its horrors and shames, presented itself to my eyes in a -succession of frightful pictures. All the wretchedness of humanity arose -before me, draped in silk, covered with rags, young and beautiful, old -and bony. The parade of these men and these women, going to destruction, -lasted a long while and filled me with terror.</p> - -<p>The heart beat, beat. It said to me now, in anger:</p> - -<p>"I came from the darkness of sin and shall return to it. You love me, -but I shall never love you, for I am a dead heart and utterly worthless. -You have striven vainly to make yourself infamous; you wish to descend -to the mud, but the mud cannot ascend to you. You interrogate the -silence, you endeavor to obtain light from darkness; you are trying to -resuscitate an unknown corpse, which you would do better to carry -immediately to the dissecting-table!"</p> - -<p>I knew nothing further. The heart ceased to beat audibly, the burning -wick of the candle was extinguished amid a flood of tallow. I remained -leaning upon Laurence's bosom, fancying myself in the depths of some -great black cavern, damp and deserted.</p> - -<p>I still heard the rattle in Marie's throat.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXIII</h4> - -<h4><a id="PRACTICAL_ADVICE">PRACTICAL ADVICE</a></h4> - - -<p>This morning, on awaking, I had in me a glimmer of dolorous hope.</p> - -<p>The window had remained open, and I was as cold as ice.</p> - -<p>I pressed my hands against my forehead; I said to myself that all this -filth could not exist, that I dreamed at will of infamy. I had come out -of a horrible nightmare; still shaken by the vision, I smiled as I -thought it was only an illusion and that I was about to resume my calm -life in the sunshine. I refused to entertain my recollections, I -revolted, I denied. I had the indignation of honor.</p> - -<p>No, it was impossible that I should suffer to this point, that life -should be so wretched, so shameful; it was impossible that there existed -such disgraces and such griefs.</p> - -<p>I arose softly, and went to the window to breathe the morning air with -all my strength. I saw Jacques below me; he was whistling tranquilly and -gazing out into the courtyard. Then, the idea entered my mind to go -down-stairs, to question him; he was a cold and just man who would calm -my excitement, an honest man who would answer my questions with candor, -who would tell me if he loved Laurence and what were his relations with -her. By adopting this course, I might, perhaps, be cured. I would no -longer feel that terrible warmth which was devouring my breast, I would -trust Laurence, I would decide on a wise line of conduct which should -release both her and myself from the desperate and wounding love into -which circumstances had plunged us.</p> - -<p>You see, brothers, that, though near the terrible dénouement, I still -was hopeful. Oh! my poor heart, you are only a big child whom each hurt -makes younger and warmer! As I passed Laurence, on my way to Jacques' -apartment, I gazed for an instant at that slumbering girl, and, after so -many tears, I again hoped to accomplish her reformation.</p> - -<p>I found Jacques at work. He offered me his hand loyally, with a bright, -frank smile upon his lips. I looked him straight in the face; I did not -see in his peaceful features the treason I was searching for there. If -this young man were deceiving me, he knew not that he was making my -heart bleed.</p> - -<p>"What!" cried he, with a hearty laugh, "are you no longer lazy? It is -good for me, serious man that I am, to get up at six o'clock in the -morning!"</p> - -<p>"Listen, Jacques," I answered: "I am sick, and have come here to cure -myself. I have lost consciousness of what surrounds me. I have lost -consciousness of myself. This morning, on awaking, I realized that the -sense of life was escaping from me, I felt myself lost in vertigo and -blindness. This is why I have come down-stairs to grasp your hand, and -to ask aid and advice from you."</p> - -<p>I watched Jacques' face narrowly to note the effect of my words. He grew -grave and lowered his eyes. He had not the attitude of a culprit, he had -almost that of a judge.</p> - -<p>I added, in a vibrating voice:</p> - -<p>"You live beside me, you know the life I lead. I had the misfortune to -meet, at the commencement of my career, a woman who has weighed me down -and crushed me. I have kept this woman with me for a long while out of -pity and justice. To-day, I love Laurence, I keep her beside me because -I am madly, recklessly, devoted to her. I have not come here to ask you -to employ your wisdom to effect a separation between her and me; I wish, -if possible, for you to give me a last ray of hope by calming my fever, -by making me see that everything in me is not shame. Do me the service -of searching my being, of spreading it out bleeding before my eyes. If -nothing good remains in me, if both my heart and my flesh are stained, I -have fully resolved to sink myself, to drown myself, in the mud. If, on -the contrary, you succeed in giving me a hope of redemption, I will make -new efforts to get back to the light."</p> - -<p>Jacques listened to me, shaking his head sorrowfully. I continued, after -a brief silence:</p> - -<p>"I do not know if you thoroughly understand me. I love Laurence with the -utmost fury, I exact that she shall follow me in the light or in the -mud. I should die of fear, if she left me alone in the depths of shame -and misery; my heart will burst when I learn that, in her abasement, she -has found other kisses than mine. She belongs to me in all her -wretchedness, in all her ugliness. Nobody else would want the poor, -abandoned and unfortunate creature. This thought makes her dearer, more -precious to me; she is unworthy of anybody, I alone accept her; if I -knew that another possessed my sad courage, my jealous rage would be all -the greater because more love, more devotion, would be needed from him -who stole Laurence from me. Therefore, do not argue with me, Jacques; I -have nothing to do with your ideas in regard to life, with your wishes -and your duties. I am too high or too low to follow you in your path. -You have a healthful mind; try only to assure me that Laurence loves me, -that I love Laurence, that I ought to love her."</p> - -<p>I had grown animated while speaking; I trembled, I felt madness growing -upon me. Jacques, becoming graver and graver, sadder and sadder, looked -at me and said, in a low tone:</p> - -<p>"Child! poor child!"</p> - -<p>Then he took my hands and held them in his, thinking, maintaining -silence. My flesh burned, his was cool; I felt my visage contract, and I -searched vainly in his, which remained grave and strong.</p> - -<p>"Claude," said he to me, at last, "you are dreaming; you are beyond -life, my friend, in the realms of nightmare and delusion. You have -fever, delirium; your heart and your body both are sick. Amid your -sufferings, you no longer see the things of this earth as they are. You -give monstrous dimensions to gravel stones, you lessen the size of the -mountains; your horizon is the horizon of vertigo, peopled by terrifying -visions which are but shadows and reflections. I swear to you that your -senses and your soul deceive themselves, that you see, that you love, -what does not exist. My poor friend, I understand your disease, I even -know the cause of it. You were born for a world of purity, of honor; you -came to us without protection, without a guiding rule, your heart open, -your mind free; you took immense pride in believing in the power of your -tenderness, in the justice, the truth of your reasoning. Elsewhere, amid -worthy surroundings, you would have increased in dignity. Among us, your -virtues have hastened your fall. You have loved when you should have -hated; you have been gentle when you should have been cruel; you have -listened to your conscience and your heart when you should have listened -only to your pleasure and your interest. And this is why you are -infamous. The story is painful; you should consider yourself well -punished for your pride, which urged you to live in defiance of the -opinions of the crowd. To-day, your wound is bleeding, increased, -irritated, by your own hands which tear it. You have maintained in your -fall the impetuosity of your character: you desired to lose yourself -utterly as soon as you felt the tip of your foot enter into evil. Now, -you wallow, with holy horror, with the fury of bitter joy, in the -ignoble bed upon which you have thrown yourself. I know you, Claude: you -have been badly beaten, you do not wish to remain half conquered. Will -you permit me, the practical man, the man without a heart, to endeavor -to cure you by cauterizing your wound with a red hot iron?"</p> - -<p>I made a gesture of impatience, opening my lips.</p> - -<p>"I know what you are going to say to me," resumed Jacques, with more -vivacity. "You are going to say to me that you do not wish to be cured, -and that my red hot iron will not even make your already too much -bruised flesh cry out. I know, besides, what you think, for I see your -anger and your disdain. You think that we are worth less than you, we -who do not love, who do not weep; you think that we have made this -world, this woman who causes you to suffer, that we are cowardly, cruel, -and that our way of being young is more shameful than your love and your -abasement. You are on the point of crying out to me, to me who live -tranquilly in the same mud as yourself, that you are dying of shame, -that I lack soul if I do not die with you. You are, perhaps, right: I -ought to sob, to twist my arms. But I do not feel the need of weeping; I -have not your woman's nerves, your violence or your delicacy of -sensation. I comprehend that you suffer through me, through the rest, -through all those who love without love, and I pity you, poor, grown up -infant, because you appear to me to suffer so much from an affliction I -know nothing about. If I cannot ascend to you, cannot expose myself to -your shame and pain arising from excess of soul and excess of justice, I -wish, at least, in order to cure you, to give you our cowardice and our -cruelty, to tear out your heart and leave your breast empty. Then, you -will walk upright in the path of youth."</p> - -<p>He had raised his voice; he grasped my hands strongly, almost with -anger. This must be all Jacques' passion: a soulless passion, made up of -logic and duty. Pale before him, my head half turned away, I smiled in -contempt and anguish.</p> - -<p>"Your Laurence," he continued, with energy, "your Laurence is a living -disgrace! She is ugly, she is prematurely old, she is dangerous. Go up -to your room and throw her into the street; she is ripe for expulsion! -For more than a year, this girl has been a crushing burden to you; it is -time that you had sent her off, that you had freed yourself, that you -had washed your hands of her. I understand the weakness of pity; I might -have sheltered Laurence for a time, if she had come to me begging for an -asylum; but, on discovering the blackness of her heart, I would have -returned to the sidewalk what belonged to the sidewalk, and I would have -burned sugar in my chamber. Go up-stairs; throw her out of the window if -she does not go quickly enough out of the door. Be cruel, be cowardly, -be unjust, commit a crime. But, for the love of God, do not shelter a -Laurence any longer. Such women are the cause of nine tenths of all the -unhappiness in this world; they are makers of desolation and should be -left to the mercy of the crowd; they deserve punishment, and it is not -just to shield them from it. Do not persist longer in giving an asylum -to this wicked wretch. You see that I am seeking some insult to -exasperate you; I would render you worthy of your age by teaching you -how to treat a Laurence, how to act like a practical man. For a year -past, what have you done, except to weep? You are dead to work, you have -lost caste, you do not look forward to the future. Laurence is the evil -angel who has killed your intelligence and your hopes. You must kill -Laurence. Hold, I have a last infamy to hurl in your face. You have not -the right to live in poverty that you may shelter this woman; if you -toiled, if you struggled, alone, you might die of hunger, but there -would be a certain grandeur about your death. The few friends whom you -had have left you; you saw them depart one by one, with coldness. Do you -know what they say? They say that they cannot explain to themselves your -manner of existence, that they cannot understand how you manage to -shelter Laurence amid your poverty; the rich, when they give alms, say -the same thing of the poor who have a dog. They say, those friends, that -there is a method in what you do, and that you eat the bread which -Laurence earns."</p> - -<p>I escaped to my feet with a sudden movement, my arms closely locked -against my breast. The insult had hit me full in the face; I felt a cold -sweat cover my visage; I was stiff and icy; I no longer knew whether I -was suffering or not. I had not believed that I had already fallen to -this degree of abasement in the opinion of the crowd; I had desired a -voluntary shame, but I had not desired insult. I drew back, step by -step, towards the door, staring at Jacques, who also had arisen, and who -was contemplating me with superb violence. When I stood upon the -threshold, he said to me:</p> - -<p>"Listen: you are going away without grasping my hand; I see that you -will never forgive me for the wound I have just given you. While I am -cowardly and cruel, I have something to propose to you. As I have -tortured you, as I have excited your disgust, I must cure you. Send -Laurence to me. I feel sufficiently courageous to separate her from you; -to-morrow, your tenderness will be dead, you will then tell this woman -she can no longer remain under the same roof with you. If you must have -another love affair to hasten the work of consolation, go up-stairs, -kneel beside Marie's bed and love her. She will not long be a burden to -you."</p> - -<p>He spoke with a cold anger, a lofty and disdainful conviction; he seemed -to tread all love under foot, to walk over those women whom he -entertained through capriciousness and custom; he looked straight before -him, as if he saw his mature age congratulating him upon the logical -shames of his youth.</p> - -<p>So Jacques, the practical man, agreed with Pâquerette; both of them -recommended to me an ignoble exchange, a remedy more distressing, more -bitter, than the disease. I closed the door violently, and went -up-stairs again, almost calm, stupid with grief.</p> - -<p>There is, in the midst of despair, an instant when the intelligence -escapes, when the events which succeed each other mingle together in -dire confusion and no longer have any meaning. When I found myself once -more before Laurence, who was still asleep, I forgot that I had just -seen Jacques, I forgot both his advice and his insults; the heart and -the mind of this man seemed to me gloomy abysses into which I could not -descend. I was alone, face to face with my love, as yesterday, as ever; -I had now but a single thought: to awaken Laurence, to clasp her in my -arms, to compel her to accept life and kisses.</p> - -<p>I awoke her, I took her with fury in my arms, I clasped her with such -force as to make her cry out. I had a dumb rage, an implacable will. I -was weary of being a stranger to Laurence, of being ignorant of what was -passing through her brain; I desired to know the secrets of her soul. I -said to myself that then I should no longer be tormented by suspicions, -that I would force her to love me by warming her heart with my caresses.</p> - -<p>Laurence had not spoken to me for two whole days. Pain unlocked her -lips. She struggled and cried out to me, in a sullen tone:</p> - -<p>"Let go of me, Claude, you hurt me! What a strange idea to wake people -by choking them!"</p> - -<p>I knelt upon the floor, at the side of the bed, and stretched out my -hands towards my tormentor.</p> - -<p>"Laurence," I murmured, in a gentle voice, "speak to me, love me. Why -are you so cruel? What have I done that your lips and your heart -maintain silence. Be frank; make me suffer all my sufferings in an hour, -or cast yourself into my arms and let us live happily. Tell me all, give -full scope to your thoughts and your affections. If you do not love me, -strike a deadly blow, crush me and depart. If you love me, remain, -remain, but remain upon my heart, close, close, and speak to me, speak -to me constantly, for I am filled with fear when I see you mute and sad -for entire days, staring at me with your dead eyes. I feel madness -coming to me in this desert amid which you are dragging me; I grow dizzy -as I lean over you, so full of deep obscurity, of silent horror. No, I -cannot live another day in ignorance of your love or your indifference; -I wish you to explain yourself at once, I wish you, at last, to make -yourself known. My mind is weary of searching; it is filled with sad -solutions which it has formed of the problem of your being. If you do -not desire my heart and my head to burst, name yourself, tell me what -you are, assure me that you are not dead, that you still have blood -sufficient to love or to hate me. I am reckless. Listen: we will set out -to-morrow for Provence. Do you remember the tall trees of Fontenay? In -Provence, beneath the glowing sun, the trees are prouder, stronger. We -will live a life of love on that ardent soil, which will restore you -your youth and give you a dark, passionate beauty. You shall see. I -know, in a ravine sown with fine grass, a small, retired house, all -green on one side with ivy and honeysuckles; there is a hedge, as tall -as a child, which hides the ten leagues of the valley, and one sees only -the blue curtains of the sky and the green carpet of the path. It is in -this ravine, this nest, that we will love each other; it shall be our -universe, and we will forget there the life we have led in the gloomy -depths of this miserable chamber. The past shall be obliterated; the -present alone, with its broad sunlight, its fruitful nature, its strong -and gentle loves, shall exist for our hearts. Oh! Laurence, in pity -speak to me, love me, tell me that you wish to follow me!"</p> - -<p>She remained sitting up in bed, tranquilly wiping her eyes heavy with -sleep, straightening out her hair, stretching her limbs. She yawned. My -words seemed to produce upon her only the effect of disagreeable music. -I had uttered the last sentences with so many tears, with such -desperation, that she ceased to yawn and stared at me with an air at -once vexed and friendly. She heaped the covers upon her bare feet; then, -she crossed her hands and said:</p> - -<p>"My poor Claude, surely you are ill. You behave like a child, you demand -things of me which are anything but droll. I wish you only knew how much -you fatigue me with your continual embraces, with your strange -questions! You nearly strangled me the other day, now you weep, you -kneel before me, as if I were the Holy Virgin! I comprehend nothing of -all this. I never knew a man in the slightest degree resembling you. You -are always stifling me, asking me if I love you. Of course, I love you, -but you would do better, instead of making yourself sick here, to look -for some work which would enable us to eat a little oftener. Such, at -least, is my opinion."</p> - -<p>She stretched herself out lazily, and turned her back to me, in order -not to have in her eyes the light from the window which prevented her -from going to sleep again. I remained on my knees, my forehead against -the mattress, broken by the new burst of excitement which had just -carried me away; it seemed to me that I had lifted myself too high and -that, a hard and cold hand having pushed me, I had fallen headlong from -the immensity of the heavens. Then, I remembered Jacques; but the -remembrance appeared to me distant and vague: I would have sworn that -years had elapsed since I had heard the terrible words of the practical -man. My heart silently admitted to itself that this man was, perhaps, -right in his selfishness: I felt a sudden temptation to take Laurence in -my arms and carry her to the nearest street corner, there to throw her -down and leave her.</p> - -<p>I could not remain thus between Jacques and Laurence, between my love -and my sufferings. I needed pacification, resolution; I needed to -complain and to question, to hear a voice answer me and give me -certainty.</p> - -<p>I ascended to Pâquerette's room. I had never before entered the -apartment of this woman. The chamber is on the eighth floor, immediately -under the roof; it is a small mansarde and receives the light through a -slanting window, the sash of which is lifted by means of an iron button. -The wall paper hangs in blackish strips; the pieces of furniture—a -bureau, a table and a bed of spun-yarn—lean one against another, in -order not to fall. In a corner, there is a violet wood étagère, with -threads of gold along the veneering, loaded with glassware and -porcelain. The den is dirty, encumbered with damaged kitchen utensils -full of greasy water; it exhales a strong odor of scraps of food and -musk, mingled with a thousand other nameless and disgusting smells.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette was gravely taking her ease in a red arm-chair, the covering -of which, worn thin in spots, showed the wool with which the back and -arms were stuffed. She was reading a little yellow book, full of stains, -which she closed and placed upon the bureau when I made my appearance.</p> - -<p>I took her hands, I wept. I seated myself on a stool, at her feet. In my -despair, I was tempted to call her mother. I told her how I had passed -the morning; I repeated to her the words of Jacques, those of Laurence; -I emptied my heart, avowed my love and my jealousy, asked for advice. -With clasped hands, sobbing, supplicating, I addressed myself to -Pâquerette as to a good soul who knew life, who could save me from the -mud into which I had blindly strayed.</p> - -<p>She smiled as she listened to me, tapping me upon the cheeks with her -withered and yellow fingers.</p> - -<p>"Come, come," said she, when emotion had choked my voice in my throat, -"come, you have shed enough tears! I knew that one day or another you -would climb up here to ask aid and succor of me. I expected you. You -took all this much too seriously; you should have reached sobs -gradually. Do you wish me to speak frankly to you?"</p> - -<p>"Yes, yes," I cried; "frankly, brutally."</p> - -<p>"Well, you fill Laurence with fear! In the past, I would have shown you -the door at the second kiss: you embrace too strongly, my son. Laurence -remains with you, because she cannot go elsewhere. If you wish to get -rid of her, give her a new dress!"</p> - -<p>Pâquerette stopped With satisfaction at this phrase. She coughed, then -pushed from her forehead a curl of gray hair which had just slipped over -it.</p> - -<p>"You ask advice from me, my son," added she. "I will give you through -friendship the advice which Jacques gave you through interest. He will -willingly deliver you from Laurence."</p> - -<p>She laughed wickedly, and my pain became more intense.</p> - -<p>"Listen," said I, with violence: "I came here to be calmed. Do not -overturn my reason. Jacques cannot love Laurence after the words he -spoke to me this morning, it is impossible."</p> - -<p>"Ah! my son," answered the old woman, "you are very innocent, very -young. I know not what you mean by love, and I know not if Jacques loves -Laurence. What I do know is that they embrace each other in -out-of-the-way corners. In the past, how many kisses I gave without -knowing why, how many kisses were given to me which came from I know not -where! You are a strange fellow, who do nothing like the rest. You -should not have thought of having a sweetheart. If you are wise, this is -what you will do: you will accept things as they are, and quietly -Laurence will depart. She is no longer young; she may become a charge to -you. Think of that. If you retain her, you will repent of it later. You -had better let her go, since she herself wishes to take her departure."</p> - -<p>I listened with stupor.</p> - -<p>"But I love Laurence!" I cried.</p> - -<p>"You love Laurence, my son; well, you will love her no longer! That is -the whole of it. People unite and people quit each other. Such is life. -But, great heavens! whence come you? How could such a man as you -conceive the idea of loving anybody? In my time, people loved -differently; it was then easier to turn the back than to embrace. You -can readily understand that it is henceforward impossible for you to -live with Laurence. Separate from her politely. I do not advise you to -accept Marie as your sweetheart; that poor girl displeases you, and I -think you had better jog on through life alone!"</p> - -<p>I no longer heard Pâquerette's voice. The thought that Jacques might -have deceived me in the morning had not before occurred to me; now, I -plunged into it, not succeeding in believing it, but finding a sort of -consolation in saying to myself that he had, perhaps, lied to me. This -was a new shadow upon my mind, a new torment added to the torments which -were already racking me. I was on the point of losing my senses.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette continued, speaking through her nose:</p> - -<p>"I wish to form you, Claude, to communicate to you my experience. You do -not know how to love. One must be kind to women; one must not beat them, -one must give them sweet things. Above all, no jealousy; if you are -deceived, allow yourself to be deceived; you will be better loved -afterwards. When I think of my adorers, I recall a little flaxen haired -fellow who boasted that he had had for sweethearts all the girls of the -public balls. Do you see that étagère, the last souvenir which remains -to me? It came from him. One evening, he approached me and said to me, -with a laugh: 'You are the only one whom I have not adored. Will you -accept me after all the rest?' I accepted his homage, he kissed me upon -both cheeks, and we supped together. That is the way to love."</p> - -<p>I recovered from my stupor; I stared about the place in which I found -myself. Then only I saw the filth of the den, then only I perceived the -odor of musk and scraps of food. All my excitement had subsided; I -realized the shame of my presence at the feet of this old wretch. The -words which she had spoken to me, and which my memory had retained, grew -clear and frightful in my mind, which before had turned them over -without understanding them.</p> - -<p>I had not the strength to go down-stairs to my chamber. I seated myself -upon a step and wept away all the blood of my heart.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXIV</h4> - -<h4><a id="SAD_REFLECTIONS">SAD REFLECTIONS</a></h4> - - -<p>I am a coward; I suffer and I dare not cauterize the wound. I feel that -Pâquerette and Jacques are right, that I cannot live amid the frightful -torment which is rending me. I must, if I do not wish to die of it, tear -love from my bosom. But I am like the dying who are frightened by the -unknown and the annihilation of the body. I know what is the anguish of -my heart, full as it is of Laurence; I know not what would be its pain -were this woman to leave it empty. I prefer the sobs of my agony to the -death of my love; I recoil before the mysterious horrors of a soul -widowed by affection.</p> - -<p>It is with despair that I feel Laurence escaping from me. I press her in -my arms like a horse hair shirt which brings the blood, which gives me a -bitter delight. She tears me, and yet I love her. I love her for all the -darts she drives into my flesh; I experience the painful ecstasy of -those monks who die beneath the rods with which they strike themselves. -I love and I sob. I do not wish to refuse to sob, if I ought to refuse -to love.</p> - -<p>And yet I realize that this sharp and biting nightmare must come to an -end. The crisis is approaching. I do not know which of us is going to -die. It seems as if anguish kept me awake, warned me of a coming -misfortune. Heaven will take pity on me: it will cure my mind and leave -me my heart; it will choose me for death rather than choose my -tenderness.</p> - -<p>This morning, I met a young man and a young woman, who were walking in -the bright sunshine. With arms closely locked, they advanced slowly, -forgetting the crowd. The young woman leaned her head upon the young -man's shoulder; she gazed at him, moved and smiling, while he, in a -glance, returned her emotion, her smile. This youthful couple absolutely -sparkled with devotion and happiness, with pure love and genuine -delight.</p> - -<p>True youthful love then exists. While I live miserably in the deep -gloom, torn and devoured by a horrible nightmare, a fearful incubus, -there are, amid the sunbeams of May, true lovers who live deliciously. I -did not know that people could love each other thus, I believed that -kisses must of necessity be biting and poignant.</p> - -<p>But, I remember now. Young lovers stroll along, two by two, in the -moonlight, amid the first streaks of dawn. They are clad in light -garments. They embrace each other at every step in a tender, dreamy -fashion; they live amid the grass, among the crowd, and they are always -alone. Heaven smiles upon them, the earth is discreet, the universe is -their accomplice. Young lovers exchange their hearts, they live in each -other's lives.</p> - -<p>As for me, I am shut up here. I cannot have everything. I have the -tears, the despair, of solitary love; I have the silence, the dead eyes, -of Laurence. What need have I of spring and youthful love? I have my -grief, if others have their joy.</p> - -<p>Oh! my God, have pity! Do not deprive me of my suffering. Prevent this -woman from curing me by killing my love. Let her remain where she is, at -my side; let her remain there, cold and indifferent, to prolong my -torment. I no longer know why I love her; I love her, setting aside all -justice and all truth; I love her for the delight of loving her, and I -do not wish to be disturbed amid the reckless madness of my devotion. My -entire being is crushed by the idea that she may quit me; I am afraid of -the dire desolation into which her absence would surely plunge me. In -losing her, I would lose my family, all my affection, everything which -yet binds me to this earth. My God, do not permit her to abandon me!</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXV</h4> - -<h4><a id="THE_FAIR">THE FAIR</a></h4> - - -<p>Last evening, in order to obtain partial relief from my sufferings, I -strolled upon a fair ground. The faubourg was all gayety, and the people -in their Sunday clothes were noisily passing through the streets.</p> - -<p>The lamps had just been lighted. The avenue, at regular distances, was -ornamented with yellow and blue posts, which were garnished with small, -colored pots, and in these pots were burning smoky wicks, the flame and -smoke being whirled about by the wind. In the trees Venetian lanterns -swung. Canvas booths bordered the sidewalks, allowing the fringe of -their red curtains to trail in the gutters. The gilded faïences, the -freshly painted bonbons and the tinsel everywhere displayed shone in the -raw light of the lamps.</p> - -<p>There was in the atmosphere an odor of dust, of spiced cake and of -greasy waffles; the powdered girls who led reckless lives laughed and -wept beneath a hailstorm of kisses, blows and kicks. A hot and stifling -mist hung over and weighed down upon this scene of riotous joy.</p> - -<p>Above this mist, above these noises, spread out a cloudless sky, with -pure and melancholy depths. An angel had lighted up the azure fields of -the heavens for some divine fête, some majestically calm fête of the -infinite.</p> - -<p>Lost amid the crowd, I felt the solitude of my heart. I walked on, -following with my glances the giddy young girls who smiled upon me as -they went by, and I said to myself that I should never again see their -smiles. This thought of so many loving lips, dimly seen for an instant -and then lost forever, gave my sad soul, already tortured by my -uncertainty in regard to Laurence, an additional pang of anguish.</p> - -<p>In this wretched frame of mind, I reached a point where a street crossed -the avenue. To the left, supported by an elm tree, stood an isolated -booth. In front of it, a few badly joined planks formed a species of -staging, and two lanterns illuminated the door, which was simply a bit -of canvas raised like a curtain. As I came to a stop, a man wearing a -magician's costume, a flowing black robe and a pointed hat sown with -stars, was haranguing the crowd from the plank platform.</p> - -<p>"Enter," cried he, "enter my fine Messieurs, enter my beautiful -Demoiselles! I have come in hot haste from the furthest extremity of -India to make young hearts rejoice. It was there that I conquered, at -the peril of my life, the Mirror of Love, which was watched over by a -horrible dragon. My fine Messieurs, my beautiful Demoiselles, I have -brought you the realization of your dreams. Enter, enter, and see the -person who loves you! For two sous you can behold the person who loves -you!"</p> - -<p>An old woman, clad like a bayadère, lifted the canvas door. She looked -around upon the crowd with a stupid glance; then, she cried out, in a -thick voice:</p> - -<p>"For two sous, for two sous, you can behold the person who loves you! -Enter and see the person who loves you!"</p> - -<p>The magician beat a furious fantaisie upon a huge drum. The bayadère -bent over a bell and accompanied him.</p> - -<p>The people hesitated. A learned ass playing cards excited lively -interest; a Hercules lifting weights of a hundred livres each was a -spectacle of which no one would ever weary; neither is it to be denied -that a half-clad giant was made to agreeably amuse those of all ages. -But to see the person who loves you appeared to be the thing of which -the crowd thought the least, and which they imagined did not promise -them the slightest emotion.</p> - -<p>As for me, I had eagerly listened to the summons of the man with the -flowing robe. His promises responded to the desire of my heart; I saw a -Providence in the chance which had directed my steps hither. The -miserable mountebank had acquired a singular importance in my eyes, from -the astonishment which I felt at hearing him read my most secret -thoughts. It seemed to me that I saw him fix flaming glances upon me, -beating the huge drum with a diabolical fury, crying out to me to enter -in a voice which rose above the clash of the bell.</p> - -<p>I had placed my foot upon the first plank step when I felt myself -stopped. Turning around, I saw in front of the platform a man who had -grasped me by the coat. This man was tall and thin; he had large hands -covered by thread gloves larger still, and wore a hat which had grown -rusty, a black coat whitened at the elbows, and deplorable cashmere -pantaloons, yellow with grease and mud. He bowed almost to the ground, -in a long and exquisite reverence; then, in a soft, sweet voice, he -addressed to me this discourse:</p> - -<p>"I am very sorry, Monsieur, that a well-bred young man like you should -set the crowd such a bad example. It is a great shame to encourage in -his impudence that wretch there, who is speculating upon our evil -instincts, for I find profoundly immoral those words screamed out in the -open air which summon the girls and the lads to mental and visual -dissipation. Ah! Monsieur, the people are weak. We, the men whom -instruction has made strong, have, believe me, grave and imperious -duties to perform. Let us not yield to culpable curiosity, let us be -worthy in all things. The morality of society depends upon us, -Monsieur."</p> - -<p>I listened to his speech. He had not released my coat and could not -decide to finish his reverence. With his hat in his hand, he spoke with -such polite calmness that I could not think of getting angry with him. I -contented myself, when he paused, with staring him in the face without -replying. He saw a question in this silence.</p> - -<p>"Monsieur," resumed he, with a new bow, "I am the friend of the people -and my mission is the well-being of humanity."</p> - -<p>He uttered these words with a modest pride, suddenly lifting himself to -his full height. I turned my back upon him and mounted the platform. -Before entering, as I lifted up the canvas curtain, I looked at him -again. He had delicately taken in his right hand the fingers of his -left, striving to efface the folds of his gloves which seemed upon the -point of slipping off.</p> - -<p>Then, folding his arms, the friend of the people tenderly contemplated -the bayadère.</p> - -<p>I let the curtain fall and found myself within the temple. It was a sort -of long and narrow chamber, without a single chair, with walls of canvas, -lighted by a single lamp. A few persons—curious girls and lads -making a great noise—were already assembled there. Setting aside the -noise, the utmost propriety was observed: a rope, stretched across the -middle of the apartment, separated the men from the women.</p> - -<p>The Mirror of Love, to tell the truth, consisted simply of two -looking-glasses without amalgam, one on each side of the rope, small -round glasses through which could be seen the interior of the booth. The -promised miracle was accomplished with admirable simplicity: it sufficed -to apply the right eye to one of the glasses, and beyond, without either -thunder or sulphur, appeared the loving person. Who could refuse to -believe in a vision so natural!</p> - -<p>I did not feel the strength to try the power of the Mirror of Love -immediately after entering. I had a vague fear that I would see Marie. -As I passed into the booth, the bayadère threw a glance at me which -froze my heart. What awaited me behind that glass? Should I see -Laurence, who on the instant would change to some horrible monster, with -sunken eyes and violet lips, a terrible vampire thirsting for youthful -blood, one of those frightful creatures which I see at night in my evil -dreams?</p> - -<p>I was afraid, brothers; I retired into a corner. To recover courage, I -looked at those who, bolder than myself, consulted destiny without so -much hesitation. I experienced a singular pleasure at the sight of those -different faces, the right eye wide open and the left closed with two -fingers, having each its smile according as the vision pleased more or -less. The glass was placed a little low; it was necessary to bend -slightly, in order to look through it. I could not imagine anything more -grotesque than the men coming up in single file to see the mates of -their souls through a circular glass a few centimètres in -circumference.</p> - -<p>First, two soldiers advanced: a sergeant, browned by the sun of Africa, -and a young conscript, having still the odor of the fields about him, -his arms embarrassed by a cloak three times too large for him. The -sergeant gave a skeptical laugh. The conscript remained bent for a long -while, singularly flattered by having a sweetheart.</p> - -<p>Then came a fat man in a white vest, with a red and bloated face, who -gazed tranquilly without a grimace either of joy or displeasure, as if -he thought it altogether natural that he should be loved by some one.</p> - -<p>He was followed by three schoolboys, youths from fifteen to sixteen -years old, with brazen mien, pushing each other to make people think -that they had the honor to be intoxicated. All three of them swore that -they saw their aunts in the Mirror of Love.</p> - -<p>Thus, brothers, the curious followed each other before the mirror, and I -cannot now recall the different expressions of countenance which struck -me then. Oh! oh! vision of the well-beloved! what rude truths you spoke -to those wide open eyes! They were the true Mirrors of Love, mirrors in -which woman's grace was reflected in a dubious light, where luxury -spread out into folly.</p> - -<p>The girls, on the other side of the rope, amused themselves in a most -genuine fashion. I read only intense curiosity upon their faces, I did -not see the indication of the least wicked thought. They came, turn by -turn, to throw an astonished glance upon the mirror and retired, some a -trifle thoughtful, others laughing like so many fools.</p> - -<p>To speak the truth, I know not what business I had there. If I were a -woman, provided I was pretty, I would never entertain the foolish idea -of putting myself out to go see the man who loved me. The days when my -heart should weep at being alone, if those days were days of spring and -golden sunlight, I would go into a flowery path that each passer-by -might gaze at and adore me. In the evening, I would return rich with -love.</p> - -<p>The curious girls before me were not all equally pretty. The handsome -ones derided the science of the magician; for a long time past they had -had no need of him. The ugly ones, on the contrary, had never found -themselves at such a fête as this. There came one of these, with thin -hair and large mouth, who could not tear herself away from the magic -mirror; she kept upon her lips the joyous and heart-rending smile of a -poor wretch satisfying her hunger after a long fast.</p> - -<p>I asked myself what fine ideas had been awakened in these foolish heads. -This was not an easy problem to solve. All of them had, without doubt, -seen in their dreams princes cast themselves at their feet; all of them -desired to become better acquainted with the lovers whom they remembered -so confusedly on awaking. There were, certainly, many deceptions; -princes are becoming rare, and the eyes of our souls, which open at -night upon a better world, are eyes much more accommodating than those -we employ during the day. There were also great delights: the dream was -realized; the lover had the handsome moustache and the black hair seen -in the vision.</p> - -<p>Thus each one, in a few seconds, lived a life of love, innocent -romances, swift as hope, which one guessed from the blushes on the -cheeks and the quivers of the corsages.</p> - -<p>After all, these girls were, perhaps, fools, and I was a fool myself to -have seen so many things where there was, doubtless, nothing whatever -visible. Nevertheless, I completely reassured myself by studying them. -I noticed that both men and women seemed in general thoroughly satisfied -with the apparition. The magician, certainly, had never been malicious -enough to give the least displeasure to these good folks who had paid -him two sous.</p> - -<p>I approached, brothers; I applied, without too much emotion, my right -eye to the Mirror of Love. I perceived, between two huge red curtains, a -woman leaning against the back of an arm-chair. She was brilliantly -illuminated by lamps which I could not see, and stood out in relief -against a piece of painted canvas, stretched across the end of the -booth; this canvas, cut in places, must formerly have represented a fine -grove of blue trees!</p> - -<p>Brothers, I saw neither Marie nor Laurence. She who loved me, according -to the magician's glass, wore, like a well-bred vision, a long white -robe slightly fastened at the waist, flowing upon the floor like a -cloud. She had across her forehead a wide veil, also white, held in -place by a crown of hawthorn flowers. Thus clad, the dear angel was all -whiteness, all innocence.</p> - -<p>She leaned coquettishly against the back of the arm-chair, turning -towards me large, caressing blue eyes. She seemed to me superb beneath -the veil: she had flaxen tresses which were lost amid the muslin, a -frank and pure forehead, delicate lips, dimples which were nests for -kisses. At the first glance, brothers, I took her for a saint; at the -second, I saw she had the air of a good girl and was not in the least -conceited.</p> - -<p>She lifted three fingers to her lips, and sent me a kiss, with a -courtesy which did not in the least suggest the realm of shadows. -Observing that she was not disposed to fly away, I fixed her features in -my memory and retired from the mirror.</p> - -<p>As I was quitting the booth, I saw my acquaintance, the friend of the -people, enter. This grave moralist, who seemed to shun me, hastened to -set the bad example of culpable curiosity. His long spine, bent in a -semi-circle, shook with emotion; then, being unable to get nearer, he -kissed the magic glass.</p> - -<p>I descended the three plank steps of the platform; I found myself again -in the crowd, decided to seek the girl who loved me now that I knew her -smile.</p> - -<p>The lamps smoked, the tumult was increasing, the people pushed along -with such reckless haste that they nearly overturned the booths. The -fête was at that hour of ideal joy in which, in order to be happy, one -risks being suffocated.</p> - -<p>On straightening myself up, I had before me a horizon of linen caps and -silk hats. I advanced, pushing the men, cautiously getting around the -great skirts of the women. Perhaps the girl who loved me was wrapped in -that pink cloak; perhaps her head was beneath that tulle hood ornamented -with mauve ribbons; perhaps she wore that delicious straw hat with an -ostrich feather in it. Alas! the owner of the cloak was sixty; the hood, -which concealed an abominably ugly face, leaned lovingly upon the -shoulder of a sapper; she who wore the hat was laughing heartily, -opening widely the most beautiful eyes in the world—but I did not -recognize those beautiful eyes.</p> - -<p>Brothers, above crowds hover I know not what anguish and what sorrow, as -if the multitude had sent up a breath of terror and pity. Never do I -find myself amid a great assemblage of people without experiencing a -vague uneasiness. It seems to me that some frightful misfortune menaces -these assembled men, that a single flash of lightning will suffice, amid -the excitement of their gestures and voices, to strike them with -motionlessness, with eternal silence.</p> - -<p>Little by little, I decreased my pace, looking at this joy which wounded -me. At the foot of a tree, in the full yellow light of the lamps, an old -beggar was standing, his body stiffened, horribly twisted by paralysis. -He lifted towards the passers-by his pale face, winking his eyes in a -lamentable fashion the better to excite pity. He gave to his limbs -sudden quivers of fever which shook him like a withered branch. The -young girls, fresh and blushing, passed laughingly before this hideous -spectacle.</p> - -<p>Further away, at the door of an inn, two workmen were fighting. In the -struggle, the glasses had been overturned, and to see the wine flowing -over the pavement one might have thought it blood from great wounds.</p> - -<p>The laughter seemed to me to be changed into sobs, the lights became a -vast conflagration, the crowd whirled as if stricken with terror. I -walked on, with a feeling of horrible sadness at my heart, staring at -the faces of the young girls but never finding the person who loved me.</p> - -<p>I saw a man standing before one of the posts which bore the lamps, -considering it with a profoundly absorbed air. From his disturbed looks, -I thought he was seeking the solution of some grave problem. This man -was the friend of the people.</p> - -<p>Having turned his head, he noticed me.</p> - -<p>"Monsieur," said he to me, "the oil employed in fêtes like this -costs twenty sous a litre. In a litre is enough to fill twenty lamps -like those which you see there: hence each lamp consumes a sou's worth -of oil. Now, this post has sixteen rows of eight lamps each: a hundred -and twenty-eight lamps in all. Besides—follow my calculations -closely—I have counted sixty similar posts in the avenue, which -makes seven thousand six hundred and eighty lamps and, consequently, -seven thousand six hundred and eighty sous, or, in other words, three -hundred and eighty-four francs."</p> - -<p>While speaking thus, the friend of the people gesticulated, emphasizing -the figures, bending down his tall body as if to bring himself within -the reach of my feeble understanding. When he paused, he threw himself -back triumphantly; then, he folded his arms, looking me in the face with -a penetrating air.</p> - -<p>"Three hundred and eighty-four francs' worth of oil," cried he, putting -a pause between each syllable, "and the poor people are without bread, -Monsieur! I ask of you, and I ask it of you with tears in my eyes, if it -would not be more honorable for humanity to distribute these three -hundred and eighty-four francs among the three thousand indigent people -contained in this faubourg? Such a charitable measure would give to each -one of them about two sous and a half's worth of bread. This thought is -well calculated to make tender souls reflect, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>Seeing that I stared at him curiously, he continued, in a drawling -voice, the while securing his gloves on his hands:</p> - -<p>"The poor man should not laugh, Monsieur. He is altogether dishonest if -he forgets his poverty for an hour. Who then will weep over the -misfortunes of the people, if the government often gives such -saturnalias as this?"</p> - -<p>He wiped away a tear and left me. I saw him enter the shop of a wine -merchant, where he drowned his emotion in five or six glasses of claret, -taking one after the other over the counter.</p> - -<p>The last light of the fair had just been extinguished; the crowd had -dispersed. In the vacillating brightness of the street lamps, I now saw -wandering beneath the trees only a few dark forms, couples of belated -lovers, drunkards and sergents de ville airing their melancholy. The -booths stretched away, gray and silent, on both borders of the avenue, -like the tents of a deserted encampment.</p> - -<p>Brothers, the morning breeze, damp with dew, imparted a quiver to the -leaves of the elm trees. The biting emanations of the evening had given -place to a delicious coolness. The softened silence, the transparent -gloom of the infinite, fell slowly from the depths of the sky, and the -fête of the stars followed the fête of the lamps. Honest people, at -last, could amuse themselves a little.</p> - -<p>I felt myself thoroughly rejuvenated, brothers, the hour of solitude -having arrived. I walked with a firm step, ascending and descending the -neighboring streets; then, I saw a gray shadow glide along the houses. -This shadow came rapidly towards me, without seeming to see me; from the -lightness of the step and the rhythmical rustle of the garments, I -recognized a woman. She was about to run against me, when she -instinctively raised her eyes. Her visage was revealed to me by the -glimmer of a neighboring lantern, and I recognized it immediately as -belonging to the girl who loved me: she was not the immortal in the -white muslin cloud as I had seen her in the booth, but a poor daughter -of this earth clad in faded calico. In her poverty, she seemed to me -more charming than before, though pale and fatigued. I could not doubt -the evidence of my senses: I saw before me the large eyes, the caressing -lips of the vision, and, besides, I distinguished, on inspecting her -thus closely, that sweetness of the features imparted by suffering.</p> - -<p>As she stopped for a second, brothers, I seized her hand and kissed it, -forgetting Laurence. She raised her head and smiled vaguely upon me, -without seeking to withdraw her fingers. Seeing me remain silent, -emotion having choked the words in my throat, she shrugged her shoulders -and resumed her rapid walk.</p> - -<p>I ran after her, caught her by the arm, and walked beside her. She -laughed almost silently; then, she shivered and said, in a low voice:</p> - -<p>"I am cold: let us hasten along."</p> - -<p>Poor child, she was cold! Beneath her thin black shawl, her shoulders -trembled in the cool morning breeze. I said to her, gently:</p> - -<p>"Do you know me?"</p> - -<p>Again she raised her eyes, and, without hesitating, replied: "No."</p> - -<p>I know not what rapid thought shot through my mind. In my turn, I -shivered.</p> - -<p>"Where are you going?" I asked.</p> - -<p>She shrugged her shoulders, and said to me, in a childish voice, with a -little, careless pout:</p> - -<p>"I am going home."</p> - -<p>We walked along down the avenue.</p> - -<p>I saw upon a bench two soldiers, one of whom was discoursing gravely, -while the other listened with respect. These soldiers were the sergeant -and the conscript. The sergeant, who seemed to me greatly moved, made me -a mocking salute, murmuring:</p> - -<p>"The rich lend, sometimes, Monsieur."</p> - -<p>The conscript, a tender and innocent soul, said to me, in a tone full of -grief:</p> - -<p>"I had only her, Monsieur: you are stealing from me the girl who loves -me!"</p> - -<p>I crossed the thoroughfare, and took another street.</p> - -<p>Three youths came towards us, holding each other by the arm and singing -very loudly. I recognized the schoolboys. The little wretches had no -further need to feign intoxication. They stopped, almost bursting with -laughter; then, they followed me a few steps, crying after me, each one -in an uncertain voice:</p> - -<p>"Ho! Monsieur, Madame is deceiving you: Madame is the person who loves -me!"</p> - -<p>I felt a cold sweat moisten my temples. I hastened my steps in my -eagerness to flee, thinking no more of the woman I was dragging along on -my arm. At the end of the avenue, as I was about at last to quit this -accursed spot, on stepping down from the sidewalk, I ran against a man -who was sitting at his ease upon the curbstone. He was leaning his head -against a lamp-post, his face turned towards the sky, and was executing -with the aid of his fingers a very complicated calculation.</p> - -<p>He turned his eyes, and, without moving his head from his pillow, -stammered out:</p> - -<p>"Ah! it is you, Monsieur! You must help me to count the stars. I have -already found several millions of them, but I am afraid I have forgotten -one somewhere. The welfare of humanity, Monsieur, depends upon -statistics alone!"</p> - -<p>A hiccough interrupted him. He resumed, with tears in his eyes:</p> - -<p>"Do you know what a star costs? Surely, the great God has gone to vast -expense on high, and the people lack bread, Monsieur! Of what good are -those lamps up there? Can they be eaten? What is the practical -application of them, I beg of you? We have no need whatever of this -eternal fête!"</p> - -<p>He had succeeded in turning his body around; he gazed about him with -perplexed looks, tossing his head with an indignant air. It was then -that he noticed my companion. He gave a start, and, with purple visage, -greedily stretched out his arms.</p> - -<p>"Ah! ah!" he stuttered, "it is the person who loves me!"</p> - -<p>The girl and I walked on a short distance.</p> - -<p>"Listen," said she: "I am poor; I do what I can to get something to eat. -Last winter, I spent fifteen hours a day bent over my work, an honest -trade, and yet I was sometimes without bread. In the spring, I threw my -needle out of the window. I had found an occupation less fatiguing and -more lucrative.</p> - -<p>"I dress myself every evening in white muslin. Alone in a sort of nook, -leaning against the back of an arm-chair, I have nothing to do but smile -from six o'clock until midnight. From time to time, I make a courtesy, I -send a kiss into space. For this I am paid three francs a sitting.</p> - -<p>"Opposite me, behind a little glass enclosed in the partition, I -incessantly see an eye looking at me. Sometimes it is black, sometimes -blue. Without this eye, I should be perfectly happy; it spoils the -business for me. At times, from always finding it alone and steadily -fixed there, I am filled with wild terror, I am tempted to cry out and -flee!</p> - -<p>"But one must work for one's living. I smile, I courtesy, I send my -kiss. At midnight, I wash off my rouge and resume my calico dress. Bah! -how many women, without being forced to do so, air their graces before a -mirror!"</p> - -<p>By this time, we had reached the wretched abode in which this girl -dwelt. I left her at the door, and returned to my mansarde and my -misery.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXVI</h4> - -<h4><a id="AT_MARIES_BEDSIDE">AT MARIE'S BEDSIDE</a></h4> - - -<p>I take a sad pleasure in being in Marie's chamber. In the morning, I go -there and sit upon the edge of the dying girl's bed; I live there as -much as possible, departing with regret. Everywhere else, I belong to -Laurence, everywhere else, I am feverish, excited and tormented. I -hasten to reach this spot of pacification, I enter it with the feeling -of confidence and comfort experienced by an invalid who is going to -breathe a milder atmosphere, by which he expects to be cured.</p> - -<p>I love death. The chamber is lukewarm, damp; the light there is gray and -softened, made up of shadow and white brightness; everything there -floats in a final languor, in a soft and dreamy half transparency. One -does not know how sweet to a bleeding heart is the silence which reigns -in a chamber where a young girl is dying. This silence is a strange, -peculiar silence, full of exquisite mildness, full of restrained tears. -The sounds—the clink of a glass, the crackling of a piece of -furniture—are subdued, drag along like half stifled complaints; the -cries from without enter in murmurs of pity, of compassionate -encouragement. Everything is held in check, noise as well as light; -everything is filled with grief and hope. And, in the shadow, amid the -silence, one hears a vague despair which comes from one knows not where, -and which accompanies the broken breath of the dying girl.</p> - -<p>I gaze at Marie. I feel myself penetrated, little by little, by that -invisible breath of consoling pity which fills the chamber. My eyes rest -from their tears in that pale brightness; my ears, amid the quivering -silence, forget for an hour the sound of my sobs. All the gentleness, -all the delicate attentions, all the faintly uttered and caressing -words, intended for Marie, seem as if addressed to me; they subdue the -sound of voices and footsteps; they question, they reply, -affectionately; they avoid sharp and painful sensations; and, as for me, -I believe, at times, that all these considerate precautions are taken -that my poor being, full of suffering, may not burst asunder. I imagine -that I am dying, that they are taking care of me; I seize my share of -the care and consolation; I steal from Marie half of her agony and of -the pity it causes; I go there, beside a dying girl, to profit by the -regrets and tenderness which men accord to the last hours of a soul. I -am curing my love through death.</p> - -<p>I feel that it is the need of being pitied, of being caressed, which -pushes me into this chamber. I find here the atmosphere, the pity, -necessary for me. Life is too sharp for my painful flesh and my wounded -heart; the bright sunlight irritates me; I am at ease only in the -restorative seclusion of the tomb. If, some day, I emerge from my -despair, I ought to thank God for having permitted me to live thus, -seated at the foot of a bed of death, for having allowed me to share the -pacification of a dying creature. I will live, because a child expired -at my side.</p> - -<p>I gaze at Marie. The fever purifies her flesh from day to day. She is -growing younger, she is becoming a little girl, amid the exhaustion of -her blood. Her deeply sunken face expresses an ardent longing, the -longing for the end, for rest; her eyes are enlarged, her pallid lips -remain half open as if to facilitate the passage of the final breath. -She is waiting, resigned, almost smiling, as ignorant of death as she -has been ignorant of life.</p> - -<p>Sometimes, we look each other in the face for long hours. I know not -what thought then arrests the cough upon her lips; she seems filled with -a single idea, which suffices to keep her awake, to give her more life -and more calmness. Her countenance grows tranquil, pink flushes appear -upon her cheeks; her limbs beneath the bed clothes have less stiffness; -Marie, under the influence of my glance, stretches herself out, shakes -off the iron grasp of death. As for me, I am absorbed in her, I share -her sufferings; little by little, it seems to me that I pass in through -her half open lips and that I become a part of this sick creature; I -experience a gentle and bitter sensation at languishing with her, at -slowly sinking away; I feel the inexorable disease take possession of my -entire body, shake me with increasing violence, in proportion as my -glances penetrate deeper and deeper into those of Marie; I say to myself -that I shall die simultaneously with her, and a great flood of joy -sweeps through me.</p> - -<p>Oh! what strange fascination and what wonderful pacification I -experience! Death is powerful; it has biting temptations, irresistible -attractions. One must not lean over the eyes of a dying creature, for -they are full of light and so deep that their abysses make one dizzy. -One wishes to see what those enlarged eyes behold, one is seized with -frightful curiosity in regard to the unknown. Every time Marie looks at -me, I desire to die, to leave this world with her, in order that I may -know what she will know; I imagine that she is soliciting me, that she -is begging me not to abandon her, that she is dreaming we will go away -in company, taking the risk of the same annihilation or the same -splendor.</p> - -<p>Then, I forget, I forget Laurence. Though I see Laurence in everything, -waking or sleeping—in the objects which surround me, in that which I -eat and in that which I drink—I do not see Laurence in the depths of -Marie's eyes. I see there only that blue glimmer, paler now, which I saw -one night while my lips touched the poor child's lips. That blue glimmer -does not speak to me of my love, does not speak to me of my grief; it is -the only thing at which I can gaze without weeping. This is the reason I -love Marie's chamber, this is the reason I love the dying girl with her -dilated eyes which have more purity, more gentleness, than the sky, for -the sky, when I lift my face towards it, speaks to me of Laurence. I am -about to lose myself in this oblivion, in this clear and serene light -which is so pure. Perhaps, thereby, my heart will be cured.</p> - -<p>When the night comes on and I can no longer see the blue glimmer in -Marie's eyes, I open the window, I gaze at the black wall. The square -patch of yellow light is there, empty or peopled, still and sad or -filled with silent movements. I feel a sharp sensation on finding myself -again, after several hours of forgetfulness, face to face with reality, -face to face with my jealousy and my anguish. Every evening, I -recommence the painful and colossal task of giving a meaning to those -dark stains which increase in size and roll in a bewildering way over -the surface of the wall. I have converted this search into a dolorous -recreation. I apply myself to it with an anxious patience, an obstinacy -full of fever, and each night I am drawn back to the window, though I -promise myself daily that I will no longer risk my reason there.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXVII</h4> - -<h4><a id="MARIES_DEATH">MARIE'S DEATH</a></h4> - - -<p>I have reached that plenitude of despair which is almost rest. I cannot -suffer additionally; this certainty that nothing can augment my tears is -a solace. My being has torn itself to such an extent that it has stopped -in pity. To-day, I can only wipe away my tears.</p> - -<p>And yet I feel that I have need of Heaven to be cured. I have the -brutishness of pain, I have not the tranquil joy of health. If my wounds -cannot be enlarged, they cannot remain open, bleeding drop by drop, with -inexorable suffering.</p> - -<p>Brothers, the hand which is to close them is a terrible hand, the hand -of death and truth.</p> - -<p>Yesterday, when night came on, Marie's chamber was filled with gloom and -silence. A candle, half hidden behind a vase on the mantelpiece, lighted -a corner of the ceiling; the walls and the floor were in darkness; the -bed was white amid the transparent shadows. Marie, paler, more broken, -had closed her eyes. I knew that she could not last through the night. -Pâquerette was asleep in her arm-chair, her hands crossed in her lap, -smiling in a dream at some imaginary gluttony; her chin resting on her -corsage, she was snoring softly, and the sound of her breath mingled -with the weakened rattle in Marie's throat. I felt myself suffocating -between this dying young girl and this old woman gorged with food. I -hastened to the window. I opened it. The weather was clear.</p> - -<p>I leaned my elbows upon the sill, and gazed at the square patch of -yellow light on the wall opposite. The stains came and went with -rapidity, fading away to re-appear of greater dimensions than before. -Never had the shadows been so nimble, so ironical; they seemed to be -indulging with delight in a jeering dance, in an inexplicable confusion -of shapes, wishing to entirely overthrow my reason. It was an -indescribable pell-mell, a mass of heads, necks and shoulders, which -rolled upon itself as if beaten and flattened by the strokes of a flail. -Then, suddenly, at the very instant when I was smiling bitterly, no -longer seeking to understand, supreme quietness settled down upon the -sombre and agile shadows; the stains gave a final leap, two profiles -were thrown upon the wall, enormous, full of energy, standing out with -sharpness and vigor. It seemed as if, weary of tormenting me, the -shadows had at last decided to reveal themselves; they were there, -black, powerful, full of superb truth and insolence. I recognized -Laurence and Jacques, out of all proportion, disdainful. The two -profiles approached each other slowly and united with a kiss.</p> - -<p>I had not ceased to smile. I felt in myself a sort of tearing sensation, -followed by a sudden feeling of satisfaction. My heart, with an enormous -pulsation, had driven out all the love which was stifling it, and that -love had gone out through my veins, giving me a final burn. I felt that -sensation of anguish which the patient experiences beneath the hands of -the surgeon: I suffered in order that I might cease to suffer.</p> - -<p>At last, the shadows had spoken, they had given me a certainty. I had -the truth written there, before me, upon the wall; I knew that which I -had sought to guess for so many long days; I stared fixedly at those two -black heads, which were kissing in the square patch of yellow light.</p> - -<p>I was astonished at suffering so little. I had thought I should die on -learning the truth, and I felt only an extreme lassitude, a benumbing of -all my being. For a long while, I remained leaning upon my elbows, -staring at the two shadows which were agitating themselves in a curious -fashion, and I thought of the terrible episode which was finished by the -kisses of two dark stains upon an illuminated wall. The conversation -which I had had with Jacques then returned forcibly to my memory; in the -gulf which had opened within me I heard, repeated one by one, gravely -and slowly, the words of the practical man, and those words, which I -imagined I was listening to for the first time, astonished me strangely, -uttered in the presence of the kisses which the shadow of Jacques was -giving to the shadow of Laurence. Who was deceived in all this? Was -Pâquerette right, or was I staring at one of those inexplicable -caprices of the mind, which urge people to lie to themselves? Could it -be possible that Jacques was devoting himself to save me, going as far -as deceptive caresses? Singular devotedness, which could strike me in my -flesh, in my heart, and cure me of an evil by an evil more terrible -still!</p> - -<p>Little by little, my thoughts grew troubled, I no longer possessed the -calmness of the first moment.</p> - -<p>I could not comprehend those kisses, and, at last, I began to fear that -what I had seen was only a miserable trick.</p> - -<p>The struggle between doubt and certainty was, for an instant, -re-established within me, sharper, more biting, than ever. I could not -imagine that Jacques loved Laurence; I believed more in him than I -believed in Pâquerette. Then, I said to myself that kisses have their -intoxication, and that he would learn to love this woman, if he did not -love her already, by applying his lips to her lips in that fashion.</p> - -<p>Hence I suffered anew. My jealousy was reawakened, my anguish again -took me by the throat.</p> - -<p>I should have retired from that window, I should not have abandoned -myself to the sight of those two shadows. What I suffered in a few -minutes cannot be told; it seemed to me that they had torn out my heart -and that I could not weep.</p> - -<p>The truth was clear, inexorable: little did it matter whether Jacques -loved or did not love Laurence; Laurence hung upon his neck, gave -herself to him, and she was henceforward dead for me. There was the sole -reality, the dénouement at once desired and feared.</p> - -<p>Amid the horrible torture which racked my being, I felt everything -crumble away within me; I realized that I was now without faith, without -love; I went back to Marie's bed and knelt beside it, sobbing.</p> - -<p>Marie awoke, she saw my tears. She made a superhuman effort, and, -quivering with fever, sat up in bed. I saw her bend down, leaning her -head upon my shoulder, I felt her wasted and burning arm encircle my -neck. Her eyes, luminous amid the darkness, full to overflowing with the -brightness of death, questioned me with fright and compassion.</p> - -<p>I would have liked to pray. I had need of clasping my hands, of -imploring a kind and compassionate Divinity. I felt myself weak and -deserted; in my childish fear I wanted to give myself to a good God, who -would take pity on me. While Jacques was tearing Laurence from me and -while the guilty couple, below me, were indulging in loving kisses, I -had an overwhelming desire to make my profession of faith and love, to -protest on my knees, to love elsewhere, in the light, before all the -world. But my lips were ignorant of prayer, I despairingly stretched out -my arms, in space, towards the mute sky.</p> - -<p>I encountered Marie's hand, and pressed it gently. Her dilated eyes were -still questioning me.</p> - -<p>"Oh! let us pray, my child," said I to her, "let us pray together."</p> - -<p>She seemed not to understand me.</p> - -<p>"What is the matter with you?" murmured she, in a faint and caressing -voice.</p> - -<p>And her feeble hand sought to wipe away my tears. Then, I looked at her -and my torn heart melted with pity. She was dying. She was already -beyond life, whiter, grander; her glassy eyes were filled with a soft -and serene ecstasy; her tranquil countenance was as if wrapped in -slumber, her thin lips no longer emitted the rattle. I realized that she -was about to die in my arms, at this solemn hour when my tenderness was -also dying, and her agony, mingled with that of my love, filled my soul -with compassion so deep that I again stretched out my hands into space -with a more biting anxiety, searching for some one.</p> - -<p>I lifted myself up, and, in a low, broken voice, repeated:</p> - -<p>"Let us pray, my child, let us pray together."</p> - -<p>Marie smiled.</p> - -<p>"Pray, Claude?" said she. "Why do you wish me to pray?"</p> - -<p>"To console us, Marie, to obtain pardon for us."</p> - -<p>"I have no pardon to ask for, I have no sorrow to be softened. See, I am -smiling, I am happy; my heart reproaches me with nothing."</p> - -<p>She was silent for a moment, putting aside her locks from her forehead; -then she resumed, in a weaker tone:</p> - -<p>"I know not how to pray, because I have never had to ask for pardon. The -woman who brought me up assured me that the wicked alone went to church -to obtain absolution for their crimes. I am a child who never did evil; -never have I had need of God. Whenever I wept, my tears flowed copiously -down my cheeks and the wind dried them. Do you wish me to pray for you, -Claude?" added she, after another period of silence. "You shall clasp my -hands and make me repeat the words which they teach to the children in -the villages. I will ask God not to make you weep any more!"</p> - -<p>Trembling, touched, I prayed for Marie, I prayed for myself. I found in -the depths of my being words of supplication and adoration, and I -uttered them one by one without moving my lips. I supplicated Heaven to -be merciful, to make death easy, to put this child to sleep in her -ecstasy, in her ignorance. And, while I prayed, Marie, without seeing -that I was addressing God, clung to my neck with greater force, bending -over my face.</p> - -<p>"Listen, Claude," said she; "I will get up to-morrow, I will put on a -white dress and we will leave this house. You will find a little chamber -in which we will shut ourselves up all alone. I plainly see that Jacques -loves me no more, because I am too weak, too white. You have a kind -heart; you will take good care of me and I will live with more -happiness, more gayety, than ever before. I am a trifle weary, I have -need of a kind brother. Will you be that brother, Claude?"</p> - -<p>These words, uttered with languishing tenderness, were horrible in the -mouth of the dying girl. She preserved her innocent shamelessness even -in the arms of death; she offered herself upon her dying bed as a sister -and a sweetheart of ten years of age. I supported her poor body as if -its flesh had been sacred, I listened to her ardent and low voice with a -holy compassion.</p> - -<p>I thought, no longer being able to pray. What then is evil? Was I not in -the presence of absolute good? Surely, God created everything sinless, -everything perfect. Evil is one of our inventions, one of the wounds -with which we are covered by reason of our own iniquity. This child who -was dying was no more disturbed, in life, by the kisses she had given -her admirers than a little girl is disturbed by the caresses which she -gives her doll. And Laurence, sad and desolate Laurence, showed such -degradation that her shamelessness was no more than the tacit acceptance -of a purely material act. Where shall we find the evil in all this, and -who would dare to punish Laurence and Marie, the one for her -brutishness, the other for her ignorance? The heart had fallen asleep, -or had not yet been awakened. It could not be the accomplice of the -flesh, which itself remained innocent in its silence. If I had had to -condemn these two women, I would have had more tears than severity, I -would have desired for them death, supreme peace.</p> - -<p>They ought to sleep very soundly in their tombs, these poor creatures -who have lived amid tumult and feverish gayety. Perhaps, nevertheless, -their hearts will love at last in death, suffering frightfully at the -thought of a life passed in loving without love; they would struggle -now, but they are nailed in their coffin. Marie was departing, white and -pure, astonished, quivering, realizing, perhaps, that she was dying -before having known life. I wished that she could take with her Laurence -who had no more to learn, having exhausted every pleasure. They would -both descend into the unknown with the same step, equally soiled, -equally innocent, daughters of God bruised by men.</p> - -<p>I was supporting Marie's head, which was weighed down with agony.</p> - -<p>"Where is Jacques?" she asked.</p> - -<p>"Jacques," I replied, "is with Laurence. They have abandoned us; we are -alone."</p> - -<p>"Alone! Has Laurence left you, Claude?"</p> - -<p>"Yes. She has left me. We are alone."</p> - -<p>She gently rubbed her hands one against the other.</p> - -<p>"Oh! it is good, oh! it is good to be alone," murmured she; "we can live -under the same roof. They have done well to arrange matters in this way. -We owe them our thanks. May they be happy on their side; we will be -happy on ours."</p> - -<p>Then, she assumed a tone of confidence, and said, in a low and joyous -voice:</p> - -<p>"You never knew it, but I did not like Laurence. She was bad to you; she -made you shed tears which I would willingly have dried. At night, I -could not sleep; I was rude even to Jacques; I wished to ascend to your -chamber to watch over you, in order that she might not harm you. You -will never leave me again, will you, Claude? I will be a good little -woman, and will take up as small a space as possible."</p> - -<p>Marie maintained silence for a short time, smiling at her thoughts. She -was growing weaker and weaker, she was becoming inert. I supported her -form, I felt the life quitting her flesh with every word she uttered. -She had now but a few minutes to live. Her smile faded away, she seemed -to be stricken with fear.</p> - -<p>"You are deceiving me, Claude," she suddenly resumed: "Laurence is not -in Jacques' chamber. You are trying to please me. Have you ever seen him -kiss her?"</p> - -<p>"Yes."</p> - -<p>"Where?"</p> - -<p>"Over there, opposite, upon the wall."</p> - -<p>Marie clasped her hands.</p> - -<p>"I wish to see," said she, pressing against me.</p> - -<p>She had a hollow and supplicating voice; she caressed me, humbly and -gently.</p> - -<p>I took her in my arms and lifted her from the bed. She was very light, -all palpitating; she abandoned herself to my grasp. I carried her -cautiously, scarcely feeling her weight, fearing to hurt her. My hands -touched with a holy respect this poor, dishevelled creature, who clung -to my neck, belonging already to death.</p> - -<p>When, with outstretched arms I held her before the window, Marie, whose -head was thrown back, looked at the sky. The heavens were of a deep -blue, sown with stars; the calm air was full of warm, slow quivers. The -eyes of the dying girl were fixed upon the stars, she breathed the -lukewarm air. Her visage, until then resigned, had a painful -contraction, like a revolt of the expiring flesh in the presence of the -breath of life. She was absorbed in her contemplation, her glance -wandered about in the sombre space, she seemed to be dreaming her last -dream.</p> - -<p>I heard her murmur and bent down. She said:</p> - -<p>"I do not see them, they are not kissing."</p> - -<p>And she gently agitated her poor hands in the air, as if to tear away -the veil which was stretched before her sight.</p> - -<p>Then, I lifted up her head. The shadows, in the square patch of yellow -light, were still kissing. They were blacker, more energetic, and their -sharpness made them frightful. Marie saw them.</p> - -<p>A glad smile showed itself upon her lips. With childish joy, with a -youthful voice, she approached my ear, caressing me with her hand.</p> - -<p>"Oh! I see them, I see them," she said. "They are kissing. They have -enormous heads, all black. I am afraid. Tell them that we are together, -that they must come no more to torment us. One night they kissed each -other thus; we also kissed on our side, and it was from that moment that -I no longer liked Laurence. Do you remember that night? Come closer that -I may kiss you. It will be our second kiss, that of our betrothal."</p> - -<p>Marie tremblingly placed her mouth against mine. I felt pass between my -lips a breath accompanied by a slight cry. The body which I held in my -arms had a convulsion, then relaxed.</p> - -<p>I glanced at Marie's eyes. They were wide open, but I searched vainly -for the blue glimmer which had burned in them on that night of which she -had just spoken.</p> - -<p>Marie was dead, dead in my arms.</p> - -<p>I carried back the corpse and laid it upon the bed, carefully covering -the body which until then I had held against my bosom. I sat down upon -the edge of the bed, I leaned the head of the child upon one of my arms, -holding her hands, looking at her face which yet seemed to live and -smile. She was taller in death, more serene, purer.</p> - -<p>Great tears, flowing down my cheeks, fell amid the hair of the dead -girl, which covered my knees.</p> - -<p>I know not how long I remained thus, amid the silence and the darkness. -Suddenly, Pâquerette awoke, she saw the corpse. She arose, all in a -tremble, and ran to get the candle behind the vase upon the mantelpiece; -then, when she had held the flame before Marie's lips and had realized -that all was, indeed, over, she gave vent to noisy despair. This old -woman recoiled with fright from death which she felt beside her; she -cried out with grief as she thought that she also must soon die. She had -never believed in the sickness of this poor girl, who seemed to her too -young to have departed so quickly; before the rapid and terrible -dénouement she trembled with terror. Her cries must have been heard in -the street.</p> - -<p>A sound of footsteps came from the stairway. Some neighbor was -ascending, attracted by Pâquerette's exclamations.</p> - -<p>The door opened; Laurence and Jacques appeared upon the threshold.</p> - -<p>Oh! brothers, I cannot continue the frightful narrative to-day. My hand -trembles, my eyes are filled with gloom. To-morrow, you shall know all.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXVIII</h4> - -<h4><a id="LAURENCES_DEPARTURE">LAURENCE'S DEPARTURE</a></h4> - - -<p>Laurence and Jacques, confused and frightened, appeared upon the -threshold of the door.</p> - -<p>Jacques, on seeing Marie's corpse, clasped his hands in terror and -astonishment. He had not expected such a sudden death. He hurried to the -bed, knelt down at its foot, and buried his face in the sheet which was -on the point of falling to the floor. Deep anguish seemed to be crushing -him. He did not stir. I could not tell whether he was weeping or not.</p> - -<p>Laurence, pale, her eyes dry, remained upon the threshold, not daring to -advance. She quivered and turned away her glances.</p> - -<p>"Dead! dead!" she murmured, in a low voice.</p> - -<p>And she took two or three steps, as if to see the better. Then, she -stood still in the middle of the chamber, alone.</p> - -<p>As for me, I yet held the corpse in my arms, I covered myself with it, I -protected myself against Laurence who was approaching.</p> - -<p>"Do not advance," cried I to her, harshly, "do not come here to soil -this child who is sleeping. Remain where you are. I have to judge and -condemn you."</p> - -<p>"Claude," she answered, in a meek voice, "let me kiss her."</p> - -<p>"No, no, your lips are all bruised with Jacques' kisses. You would -profane the dead."</p> - -<p>Jacques seemed to be asleep, his head in the sheet. Laurence fell upon -her knees.</p> - -<p>"Listen, Claude," she said, stretching out her hands towards me: "I know -not what you see upon my lips, but do not speak to me with such -harshness. I have need of gentleness."</p> - -<p>I stared at this woman, who was humbly complaining, and I failed to -recognize Laurence. I clasped Marie closer, fearing some weakness.</p> - -<p>"Arise and listen to me," I cried out to Laurence: "I wish to make an -end of this. You come from Jacques' room. You should not have come here. -You opened the wrong door."</p> - -<p>Laurence arose.</p> - -<p>"Then, it is your intention to drive me away, is it?" asked she.</p> - -<p>"It is not I who drive you away. You have driven yourself away by -accepting another asylum. Remain in that asylum."</p> - -<p>"I have not chosen another asylum. You are deceived, Claude. There are -no strange kisses upon my lips. I love you."</p> - -<p>She advanced timidly, fascinating, her arms outstretched.</p> - -<p>"Do not approach, do not approach," I cried again, with a movement of -fright. "I do not wish you to touch me, I do not wish you to touch -Marie. The poor dead girl protects me against you; she is here, upon my -breast, asleep; she calms my heart. I feel myself terribly torn. I -should, perhaps, have had the baseness to pardon you, if you had come -into our chamber and there dragged yourself at my feet, for there you -would have been all-powerful over me, by reason of that infamous love -with which misery and abandonment have inspired me. Here, you can exert -no influence over my heart, no influence over my body. I still have upon -my lips Marie's soul, her last breath and her last kiss. I do not wish -your soiled mouth to take that soul from me."</p> - -<p>Laurence paused, sobbing, gazing at me through her tears.</p> - -<p>"Claude," murmured she, "you do not understand me, you have never -understood me. I love you. I never knew what you wanted of me; I gave -myself as I knew how to give myself. Why do you drive me away? I have -done no evil; if you think I have done evil, you can beat me and we will -still live in company."</p> - -<p>I was weary, I felt my heart bleed; I was in haste to see this woman -depart, I implored her in my turn.</p> - -<p>"Laurence," said I, more gently, "in pity go away. If you have ever had -any love for me, spare me further suffering. Our tenderness for each -other is dead, we must separate. Go forth into life, where you will, but -take the path that leads to goodness and happiness, if you can. Let me -recover my hope and my gayety."</p> - -<p>She folded her arms in despair, repeating several times, in a wild -tone:</p> - -<p>"All is over, all is over!"</p> - -<p>"Yes, all is over," answered I, with emphasis.</p> - -<p>Then, Laurence fell upon the floor in a mass, and burst into violent -sobs.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette, who had tranquilly resumed possession of her arm-chair, -looked at her with curiosity. The old wretch was filled with -astonishment, chewing some lozenges which she had just found, Marie not -having lived long enough to finish the box.</p> - -<p>"Ah! my child," said she to Laurence, "have you also lost your senses? -Great heavens! what fools lovers are in these days! In my time, people -quitted each other gayly. Do you not see that it is greatly to your -advantage to separate from Claude. He consents. Thank him, and depart at -once."</p> - -<p>Laurence did not hear her, she was striking the floor with her feet and -with her fists, a prey to a sort of nervous crisis. Lightly clad, she -twisted, panting, full of quivers which shook her all over. She bit her -hair which had fallen over her face, she uttered half stifled cries, -confused words which were lost amid her sobs.</p> - -<p>I saw her from head to foot, crushed and quivering; I felt neither pity -nor anger.</p> - -<p>Then, she got upon her knees, and, her face convulsed, her flesh -reddened and blued by tears, dragging herself towards me in her twisted -and hanging skirts, she cried out:</p> - -<p>"You are right, Claude, I am bad. I prefer to speak the truth, to tell -you everything. You will, perhaps, pardon me afterwards. Your eyes have -rightly seen: my lips should be red with Jacques' kisses. I went to him, -I forced him to treason. I am a wicked wretch!"</p> - -<p>Her sobs convulsed her bosom. They mounted from the depths of her being -in enormous and painful breaths, swelled her throat horribly, made her -whole body undulate, burst from her lips in hollow and heart-rending -cries.</p> - -<p>"Have mercy upon me," murmured she. "I did not know that Jacques' kisses -would separate us. I acted without reflection, without thinking of you. -I grew weary sometimes, in the evening, when you came to this chamber. -Then, I sought to amuse myself. That is the true state of the case; it -admits of no other explanation. I do not wish to quit you. Pardon me, -pardon me!"</p> - -<p>At this last hour, this woman was more impenetrable than ever. I could -not understand this creature, cold and weighed down, nervous and -suppliant. For a year I had lived beside her, and yet she was as much a -stranger to me as on the first day of our acquaintance. I had seen her -turn by turn old and young, active and sluggish, cold and loving, -cynical and humble; I could not reconstruct a soul with these diverse -elements, I stood dumb before her dull and grimacing visage which hid -from me an unknown heart. She loved me, perhaps; she yielded to that -craving for love and esteem which is found in the depths of the most -depraved natures. But I no longer sought to understand her; I realized -that Laurence would always remain a mystery to me, a woman made up of -gloom and vertigo; I knew that she would remain in my life like an -inexplicable nightmare, like a feverish night full of monstrous and -incomprehensible visions. I did not wish to listen to her, I felt myself -still in a dream; I was afraid of yielding to the madness of the -darkness, I yearned with all my strength for the light.</p> - -<p>I made a movement of impatience, refusing with a gesture, firmly closing -my lips. Laurence, fatigued, pushed her hair from her face; she looked -straight at me, silent, disheartened, she no longer supplicated, for -words had failed her. She begged me by her attitude, by her glance, by -her disturbed countenance.</p> - -<p>I turned away my head. Laurence then arose painfully, and went to the -door without taking her eyes from me. She stood for an instant, -straight, upon the threshold. She seemed to me to have grown taller, and -I almost weakened, almost threw myself into her arms, on seeing that she -wore, at this last hour, the ragged remains of her blue silk dress. I -loved that dress, I would have liked to tear a rag from it to keep in -remembrance of my youth.</p> - -<p>Laurence, walking backwards, passed into the darkness of the stairway, -addressing to me a final prayer, and the dress was now only a black -flood which quiveringly glided over the steps.</p> - -<p>I was free.</p> - -<p>I placed my hand upon my heart: it was beating feebly and calmly. I was -cold. Deep silence reigned within my being, it seemed to me that I had -awakened from a dream.</p> - -<p>I had forgotten Marie, whose head still peacefully reposed upon my -breast. Pâquerette, who had been dozing, suddenly arose and laid the -body upon the bed, saying to me as she did so:</p> - -<p>"Look at the poor child! You have not even closed her eyes. She seems to -gaze at you and smile."</p> - -<p>Marie was gazing at me. She had an infant's sleep, a supreme peace, the -forehead of a pure and sainted martyr. She seemed happy at what she had -understood before her death, when she had said that we were alone, that -we could love each other. I closed her eyes that she might slumber in -this thought of love, and kissed her eyelids.</p> - -<p>Pâquerette placed two candles upon a little table near the corpse; then -she resumed her doze, curled up in her arm-chair. Jacques had not -stirred; all my words, all those of Laurence, had passed over him -without making him start. On his knees, his face buried in the sheet, he -was absorbed in some harsh and terrible thought which overwhelmed him -and deprived him of speech.</p> - -<p>The chamber was now silent. The two candles sent forth a pale light, -which whitened the bed clothes and Marie's uncovered face. Beyond this -narrow circle of brightness, all was but uncertain gloom. Amid this -gloom, I vaguely perceived Pâquerette asleep and Jacques kneeling. I -went to the window.</p> - -<p>I passed the night standing there, with a narrow bit of sky above me. I -looked at Marie and I looked within myself; I towered above Jacques, I -distinguished Laurence far off, very far off, in my memory. My mind was -healthy, I explained everything to myself, I comprehended my being and -the creatures who surrounded me. It was thus that I was enabled to see -the truth.</p> - -<p>Yes, Jacques had not been deceived. I was ill. I had fever, delirium. I -feel to-day, from the fatigue of my heart, what must have been the -violence of my disease. I am proud of my sufferings, I understand that I -have not been infamous, that my despair was but the rebellion of my -heart incensed at the society into which I had unwittingly brought it. I -am awkward before shame, I cannot accept common love; I have not the -tranquil indifference necessary to live in this corner of Paris, where -beautiful youth wallows in the midst of the mud. I need the pure -mountain summits, the broad country. If I had encountered a spotless -girl, I would have knelt before her and given myself entirely to her; I -would have been as pure as she, and, without struggle, without effort, -we would have united our fortunes, we would have become husband and -wife. Life has its fatalities. One night, I met Laurence with her throat -uncovered; I was imprudent enough to shelter this woman, and at length I -loved her, loved her as if she had been a spotless angel, with all my -heart, all my purity. She repayed my affection with suffering and -despair; she had had the baseness to allow herself to be loved without -ever having once loved on her side. I tore myself, before this dead -soul, in a vain attempt to make myself understood. I wept like a child -who wishes to kiss his mother, standing on the tips of his little feet, -but unable to reach the visage of her in whom all his hope is centred.</p> - -<p>I said these things to myself during that supreme night, and I said to -myself, besides, that some day I would speak and show the truth to my -brethren, the hearts of twenty years. I found a great lesson in my -wasted youth, in my broken love; my entire being cried out: Why did you -not remain at home, in Provence, among the tall grass, beneath the -glowing sunbeams? There you would have increased in honor, in strength. -But, when you came here to seek life and glory, why did you not keep -from the mud and pollution of this great city? Did you not know that man -has neither two youths nor two loves? You should have lived like a -well-ordered young man amid your work, and you should have loved some -pure and spotless creature, not Laurence.</p> - -<p>Those who accept without tears the life which I have led for a year past -have no heart, those who weep as I have wept come out of that life with -broken body and dying soul. The Laurences must be killed, then, as -Jacques said, since they kill our flesh and our love. I am only a child -who has suffered, I do not wish to preach here. But I show my empty -breast, my wounded and bleeding body; I desire that my wounds may make -the young men of my age tremble, and may arrest them on the edge of the -gulf. To those who delight in brightness and purity I will say: "Take -care, you are about to enter the gloom, the realm of temptation." To -those whose hearts are asleep and who are indifferent in regard to evil -I will say: "Since you cannot love, try at least to remain worthy and -honest."</p> - -<p>The night was clear, I saw far into the blue sky. Marie, now stiffened, -slept heavily; the sheet thrown over her had long folds, sharp and hard. -I thought of the annihilation of the flesh, I thought that we had great -need of faith, we who live in the hope of to-morrow and who know not -what to-morrow may bring forth. If I had had a God in Heaven, whose -protecting arm I had felt about me, I should not, perhaps, have yielded -to the vertigo of a wretched passion. I should always have had -consolations, even in the midst of my tears; I should have employed my -excessive love in prayer, instead of not being able to bestow it upon -any one and feeling it stifle me. I had abandoned myself, because I had -faith in myself only and had lost all my strength. I do not regret -having obeyed my reason, having lived in freedom, having had respect -only for the true and the just. But, nevertheless, when the fever seizes -upon me, when I tremble with weakness, I am filled with fear, I become a -child; I would prefer to be controlled by the Divine will, to efface -myself, to allow God to act in me and for me.</p> - -<p>Then, I thought of Marie, asking myself where was her soul at this hour. -In the great realm of nature, without doubt. I indulged in the dream -that each soul is merged in the grand whole, that dead humanity is but -an immense breath, a single spirit. Upon earth we are separated, we are -ignorant of each other, we weep at our inability to unite ourselves; -beyond life there is a complete penetration, a marriage of all with all, -a single and universal love. I looked at the sky. I seemed to see in the -calm and quiet stretch of blue the soul of the world, the eternal soul -made up of all the others. Then, I experienced a great delight, I had -shot ahead of my cure, I had arrived at pardon and faith. Brothers, my -youth still smiled upon me. I thought that some day we would be reunited -all four—Marie and Jacques, Laurence and myself; we will understand -each other, we will pardon each other; we will love each other without -having to hear the sobs of our bodies, and we will experience a supreme -peace in exchanging those tendernesses which we could not give each -other when we lived in the flesh.</p> - -<p>The thought that there is a misunderstanding upon earth, and that -everything is explained in the other world, consoled me. I said to -myself that I would wait for death in order to love. I stood near the -window, in the presence of the sky, in the presence of Marie's corpse, -and, little by little, a gentle coolness, a limitless hope, came to me -from that dead young girl and the dreamy space.</p> - -<p>The candles had burned out. The silence in the chamber grew heavier and -heavier, and the darkness increased. Pâquerette still slept. Jacques -had not moved.</p> - -<p>Suddenly he arose, he stared around him in terror. I saw him lean over -the corpse and kiss it on the forehead. The cold flesh sent a shiver -through him. Then, he noticed me. He came to me, hesitated, and then -offered me his hand.</p> - -<p>I looked at this man whom I could not comprehend, who seemed to me as -obscure as Laurence. I did not know whether he had lied to me or whether -he had wished to save me. This man had struck my heart a heavy blow. But -I had recovered hope, I had pardoned. I took his hand and pressed it.</p> - -<p>Then, he went away, thanking me with a look.</p> - -<p>In the morning, I found myself beside Marie's bed, on my knees, still -weeping, but my tears were mild, softened. I wept over this poor girl -whom death had carried off in her spring, ignorant of the kisses of -love.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>CHAPTER XXIX</h4> - -<h4><a id="CONCLUSION">CONCLUSION</a></h4> - - -<p>Brothers, I am coming to you. I set out to-morrow for the country, for -Provence. I wish to draw a new youth from our broad horizons, from our -pure and glowing sunbeams.</p> - -<p>My pride has led me to aim at too lofty a mark. I believed myself ripe -for the struggle, while in reality I was but a weak and inexperienced -child. Perhaps, I shall always remain a child.</p> - -<p>I rely upon your friendship, on my remembrances. Near you, I will recall -the days of the past, I will quiet myself, I will succeed in curing my -heart. We will go into the plains, on the shady bank of the river; we -will resume the life we led when we were sixteen, and I will then forget -the terrible year through which I have just passed. I will return to -those days of ignorance and hope, when I knew nothing of reality and -when I dreamed of a better earth. I will become young again, believing; -I will recommence life with new dreams.</p> - -<p>Oh! I feel all the thoughts of my youth return to me in a body, filling -me with strength and hope. Everything had disappeared amid the gloom into -which I had entered—you and the world, my daily toil and my future -glory. I lived only for a single idea: to love and to suffer. To-day, -amid my tranquillity, I feel awakening, one by one, those thoughts which -I recognize and to which I extend a hearty welcome, with a softened -soul. I was blind, but now I see clearly within me; the evil is torn -away, I find the world as I left it, broad for youthful courage, -luminous, full of applause. I will resume my labor, recover my strength, -struggle in the name of my faith, in the name of my tenderness.</p> - -<p>Make a place for me beside you, brothers, let us live in the pure air, -in the fields sparkling with sunbeams, in our pure love. Let us prepare -ourselves for life by loving each other, by going hand in hand in -freedom beneath the blue sky. Wait for me, and make Provence sweeter, -more encouraging, to receive me and restore me my childhood.</p> - -<p>Last night, when at the window, in the presence of Marie's corpse, I -purified myself with faith, I saw the sky, full of gloom, whiten at the -horizon. All night long I had had before my eyes the black stretch of -space, pricked by the yellow light of the stars; I had vainly sounded -the infinity of the sombre gulf, growing terrified at the immense -calmness, at the unfathomable depths. This calmness and these depths -were lighted up; the darkness quivered and slowly rolled back, allowing -its mysteries to be seen; the fear inspired by the gloom gave place to -the hope inspired by the growing brightness. The whole sky grew -inflamed, little by little; it acquired rosy tints as soft as smiles; it -bathed in the pale light, sparkling with faint brilliancy. And, alone in -the presence of this tearing away of the night, of this slow and -majestic birth of the day, I felt in my heart a young, invincible -strength, an immense hope.</p> - -<p>Brothers, it was the dawn.</p> - -<p><br /><br /><br /></p> - -<h4>THE END</h4> - - - - - - - - -<pre> - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Claude's Confession, by Émile Zola - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK CLAUDE'S CONFESSION *** - -***** This file should be named 63819-h.htm or 63819-h.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/3/8/1/63819/ - -Produced by Dagny and Laura Natal Rodrigues at Free -Literature (Images generously made available by Hathi -Trust.) - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United -States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. 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