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.