The Confession of a Child of the Century Part 22

Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reason can not explain. I sat still, as though awakened from a dream, and began to repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me, how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N-----, and knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first words were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringing letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we would ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised to find ourselves vis-a-vis.

I looked about me in embarra.s.sment. His room was on the fourth floor; everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.

As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On the mantel, I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at it, and he said it was his mother.

I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him since childhood. Before I came to the country, she used to see him occasionally at N-----, but at the time of her last visit there he was away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest employment that enabled him to support his sister and mother.

His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise; he deprived himself of everything for them, but, although he possessed musical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate needs of those dependent on him, and an extreme reserve, had always led him to prefer an a.s.sured income to the uncertain chances of success in larger ventures. In a word, he belonged to that small cla.s.s who live quietly, and who are worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had learned of certain traits in his character which will serve to paint the man: he had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighborhood, and, after a year of devotion to her, secured her parents' consent to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be signed, the preparations for the wedding complete, when his mother said:

"And your sister? Who will marry her?"

That simple remark made him understand that if he married, he would spend all his money in the household expenses and his sister would have no dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy prospects; he then came to Paris.

When I heard that story, I wanted to see the hero. That simple, una.s.suming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the glories of war.

The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually, my thoughts took another course; I looked at him attentively, and it seemed to me that he was also examining me with curiosity.

We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us!

He was accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the clock; never having seen anything of life, except that part of it which lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and a dingy government office; sending his mother all his savings--that farthing of human joy which the hand of toil clasps so greedily; having no thought except for the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been a babe in arms! And I, during that precious time, so swift, so inexorable, during that time, that with him was bathed in sweat, what had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived?

What I have said in a page, can be comprehended in a glance. He spoke to me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit.

"When do you go?" he asked.

"I do not know; Madame Pierson is unwell and has been confined to her bed for three days."

"For three days!" he repeated in surprise.

"Yes; why are you astonished?"

He arose and threw himself on me, his arms extended, his eyes fixed. He was trembling violently.

"Are you ill?" I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said:

"Pardon me; be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well; when I have sufficiently recovered, I will return your visit."

CHAPTER III

BRIGITTE was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as soon as she was well enough to travel. But I insisted that she ought to rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey.

Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she a.s.sured me that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was pa.s.sing in her heart. We went to the theater every night in order to avoid embarra.s.sing tete-a-tetes. There, we sometimes pressed each other's hands at some fine bit of acting or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance, but going and returning we were mute, absorbed in our thoughts.

Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his simplicity rea.s.sured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had brought, and he did not appear offended, but saddened. He was ignorant of the contents and his friends.h.i.+p for Brigitte led him to censure them severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, if he knew what they contained. On account of Brigitte's tone of reserve in his presence, I did not think he was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed him with pleasure, although there was always a sort of awkward embarra.s.sment in our meeting. He was asked to act as intermediary between Brigitte and her relatives after our departure. When we three were together, he noticed a certain coldness and restraint which he endeavored to banish by cheerful good humor. If he spoke of our liaison, it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as a sacred bond; in fact, he was a kind friend, and he inspired me with full confidence.

But despite all that, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could not obliterate strange thoughts that came to my mind. The tears I had seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as Brigitte's, I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered between them, troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago, I would have become violently jealous; but now, of what could I suspect Brigitte?

Whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away with me? Even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret of which I knew nothing, what could be the nature of that mystery? What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friends.h.i.+p? She had known him as a child; she met him again, after long years, just as she was about to leave France; she chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets?

Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey, proscribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt that this must be the explanation and that it was my duty to a.s.sure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of requiting the other for the services he had rendered. And yet, a deadly sense of coldness oppressed me and I could not determine what course to pursue.

When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked of him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him continually. She, however, told me just what I have told the reader; his life had never been other than it was at this time, poor, obscure and honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times, without knowing why I took such an interest in it.

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess.

If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand while a.s.sisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was happy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted, his simple and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; one became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of the earth.

I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.

Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.

"Why do we wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything is ready."

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not help repeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn; but that was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What strange creatures we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N-----, and when Brigitte, almost cheerful, a.s.sumed a motherly air to recall some incident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans and his prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favorable light and forced his modesty to reveal his merit.

"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do you expect her to marry?"

He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy but that it would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide her dowry; that there was a family in the country, whose eldest son was her friend; that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune would one day come, like rest, without thinking of it; that he had set aside for his sister, a part of the money left by their father; that their mother was opposed to it but that he would insist on it; that a young man may live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to him. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there; pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

Upon examining our trunks, we found that there were still a few things needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was remarkably active and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk.

Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She was playing one of those old airs, into which she put so much expression and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reached my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.

Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the buckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room at the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot; Brigitte, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the second time, I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tears myself, and not knowing what was pa.s.sing in me, I held out my hand to him.

"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.

"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear your sweet voice."

She continued her song without a word; she noticed my emotion as well as Smith's; her voice faltered. With the last notes, she arose and came to me and kissed me.

On another occasion, I had bought an alb.u.m containing views of Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us, and when Brigitte found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was one view that seemed to please her more than all the others; it was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance from Brigues; some trees with cows grazing in the shade; in the distance, a village consisting of some dozen houses, scattered here and there. In the foreground, a young girl with a large straw hat, seated under a tree, and a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come; he was directing her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley resembled a lake of verdure and the eye followed its contour with delight.

"Shall we go there?" I asked Brigitte. I took a pencil and traced some figures on the picture.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you and can I not, if I am skilful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me?"

The whim seemed to please her and she set about rubbing out the two faces. When I had painted her portrait, she wished to try mine. The faces were very small, hence not very difficult; it was agreed that the likenesses were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened and I was called away by the servant.

When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound reverie and was not aware of my presence; I sat down near the fire and it was not until I spoke to Brigitte that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strike his forehead with his hand.

When I discovered these signs of grief, I said to myself: "What does it mean?" Then I clasped my hands to plead with--whom? I do not know; perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny.

CHAPTER IV

MY heart yearned to set out and yet I delayed; some secret influence rooted me to the spot.

When Smith came, I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How is it that we frequently seem to enjoy unhappiness?