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.