The fear of living

Jean was putting M. Loigny into a victoria which he had fetched for him in the town. The old gentleman was wearing a frock-coat, a silk stock wound several times round his neck in the old-fashioned way, pearl-grey gloves, and carrying a stick with a silver knob.

“I feel so strange in this get-up,” he complained, thinking regretfully of his gardening-clothes. And he gave several orders about his rose bushes as if he were setting out on a long journey.

Jean tried to reassure him.

“Above all things,” he said finally, “do not forget what you are going for.”

“As if I should!” the little man retorted energetically. “Even if my loveliest flowers should fade in my absence I will satisfy you.”

M. Loigny was going to Le Maupas to ask Madame Guibert for her daughter’s hand on behalf of his nephew. When the carriage had disappeared round the road, Jean, impatient and agitated, instead of going back to Rose Villa, had slowly followed the same road. Thus he would perhaps meet his ambassador returning and perhaps would have time in the evening to go up himself to the house and speak alone to her who was to be his bride. He gazed questioningly at the sun, which was slowly sinking towards Mount Lépine.

“These July days are the longest of all,” he said to himself, looking for encouragement in his project.

After the evening at Aix the young man had searched his heart. He loved Paule for her courage and pride; and also for that mysterious attraction exercised on us by the features of the face, the color of the eyes, the mass of the hair, the carriage of the body, the matchless grace of a woman in whom we foresee the promise of a secure and happy future for ourselves—or at least a delicious torment of our soul. He could feel within him the approval of all his ancestry in the past, whose noble traditions he meant to carry on successfully. This sensible young girl with the eyes of flame inspired a tender love in his heart; above all she incited him to seek the true end of human existence, which is not to set up one’s own welfare as one’s object, but, striving valiantly and unselfishly, to make oneself the link between the generations past and those to come. Where could he find a worthier companion, a stronger and a surer one who could give better counsel? Paule had grown like a plant whose roots drew their nourishment from fertile soil. Her family was the guarantee of her virtue. It had only needed a little sunshine for her to attain her full development. Would not love bring her warmth and light? And what joy to see her grow and blossom and to feel oneself a little the cause of it, to give back to her the lost days of a cruelly harassed youth, fled almost before she had time to note their flight.

Paule would love him, she loved him already perhaps. Had he not noticed more than one slight indication of her secret feelings, in spite of her reserve and dignity—a blush on her cheek, a hurried fluttering of her eyelids, and above all the unconscious softness of that pure, loyal, sincere glance as it rested on him. Then, as he dipped back into his memories, he seemed to recall a coolness which she had long ago shown toward Isabelle Orlandi. Isabelle Orlandi! He had not seen her again, he would never see her any more. He was still full of a superstitious dread of her, and he put away from him the too beautiful vision which humiliated him cruelly as it reminded him of his own weakness. Loved by Paule Guibert, on the contrary, he felt himself strong enough to conquer all obstacles. For this is the true test of real love, that it exalts all our faculties, and gives us confidence in ourselves.

The decision which his heart reached was sustained by other considerations. Married love does not cut the lover off from the outer social world, but, through the very difficulties which it encounters, brings with it an understanding of life in general. It is the safeguard of this life, in contradistinction to the love of mere passion, which threatens it with oblivion, and ruin. The Guiberts were not well off, and his own fortune was reduced to very little. No doubt it would be not without regret that he would leave the service. He loved this self-sacrificing and honorable profession, and the stern discipline which imposes itself on the will. The brilliant career he had carved out for himself so early gave him the right to count on the future. He did not, however, feel that irresistible vocation which forces young men to travel along one road, all others for them leading but to distaste and dissatisfaction. That had been the case with Marcel, for instance. But Jean was not tempted to reject the suggestion which the necessities of his existence, as it must be in the future, made to him. He was able to plan out his life without trouble. In the course of his visits to Le Maupas, the affairs of Étienne and François Guibert in Tonkin were often discussed. In all their letters the two young men told of the prosperity of their undertakings and complained of not being able to extend them for want of the necessary help. In vain, they said, they had appealed to old school friends. They all preferred routine work to independence, mediocrity to risk. But Jean, as he grew to know his heart more surely, thought the more deliberately: “If I hand in my resignation, I—we—shall go out to join them.” The call of the colonies attracted him by the very energy and activity which it necessitates. He had always had a love of mother earth. Distant peasant ancestors drew him to the soil. If, out there, he should feel homesick for France and the Army, could he not gain strength in the love of that new France, which he would be helping to build, in the manly joy that there is in the patient conquest, day by day, of a soil to which water and fertility must be slowly brought? Would he not gain it, above all, from the love of his wife? She, he was certain, would not fear to leave the country with him and to share his life of struggle and adventure. The blood of Dr. Guibert, so indifferent to danger, the blood of that mother who was sustained in trials by an unconquerable faith, ran in the veins of this girl whom he loved.

With the selfishness of lovers, Jean forgot one person in the calculation of his future, or rather he was thoughtlessly planning to deprive this person of her sole support, of the sole sweetness of her joyless days.

In Madame Guibert’s heroism he discovered new reasons for confidence in Paule, worthy of such a mother; and he did not see that he was going to ask the greatest sacrifice of all from this poor woman, to take from Niobe her last child, the only one left her by the gods, the one she might still clasp distractedly to her bosom.

Along the road to Le Maupas Jean walked towards his happiness, while the lovely summer evening was shedding its light over the glad world.

Old Marie ushered M. Loigny into the drawing-room and went to look for her mistress, muttering on her way,

“What does the old man want of us with his frock-coat and tall hat?”

But M. Loigny paid no attention to the servant whom his fashionable disguise stirred to such wrath.

He had just stopped short before a bowl of roses which bloomed in the middle of the table. Bending over them he examined them so closely that it seemed as if he were sniffing at them, and all at once he began to show signs of great stupefaction. Madame Guibert found him in this curious state. He scarcely bowed to her, and leading her up to the flowers he cried:

“Do you see that?”

“Yes,” said she, surprised.

“How did you get it?”

“I don’t know, Monsieur Loigny.”

“It is quite impossible that you shouldn’t know. Come, tell me!”

And then, less brutally, the eccentric little man added:

“I beg of you, Madame; it is very serious.”

Madame Guibert politely racked her memory.

“My son Étienne brought us home some rose-cuttings—they found a good soil at Le Maupas. These are their flowers. They are lovely, but they have no scent.”

“Certainly, they have no scent. But I don’t mind about that. And where had your son Étienne come from?”

“From Tonkin, Monsieur, from the Bay of Along, which produces flowers and fruit in abundance.”

“Ah! a Chinese rose! That is it. I thought it must be. And you don’t know its name, of course. Nobody knows the names of flowers in France.”

Madame Guibert excused herself smilingly, and the flower-maniac continued:

“They teach music to young girls, so that they may bore their fathers to death, and later their husbands, with sonatas. But they neglect to teach them botany. And in botany, Madame, should be recognised the crown of the earth, the grace of the home, the peace of the human spirit! I find a happy philosophy in it. To repair this gap in instruction I am making a catalogue of all the names of roses. We must know where to stop. Nature is too vast for us. But these names are, for the most part, deplorably vulgar!”

“Really, Monsieur,” said the poor lady at random, thinking of something else and yet humoring his fancy.

“Deplorable, I repeat. The prettiest are women’s names. They do not remind us of the complicated and delightful art of the garden, nor of the diversity of the vegetable kingdom with its thousand forms and colors, nor of our various shades of feeling—though to these it would have been in good taste to have made suitable allusion. They are inanimate names, like those of geography or chemistry.”

“I don’t understand anything about it,” admitted Madame Guibert, “but I love flowers.”

But the old enthusiast would not stop.

“We have not the inventive mind, Madame. And we have forgotten how to be astonished, how to be moved before the never-ending miracles of nature. We have settled down in the universe as though it were a dining-room. Familiarity and practical considerations have blunted our feelings. Yet the universe is really delicate, ever-changing, and delightful. Ah, Madame, believe me, we are far from equalling the Chinese gardeners.”

“The Chinese gardeners?” she repeated.

“Yes, the Chinese gardeners. Do you know what names they give their flowers.”

“How should I know, Monsieur?”

“Names which sum up the manifold beauty of the earth. Here are some of them:—‘Water sleeping in the moonlight.’ ‘The sun in the forest.’ ‘The maiden’s first desire,’ and this, which I trust you will appreciate, ‘The young girl showing her bosom.’”

Indulgent, but astonished, Madame Guibert smiled at this harmless folly and tried to check its outpourings.

“Won’t you give me some news of Jean? We have not seen him for several days. He is deserting us.” She foresaw the object of this unexpected visit. M. Loigny, disdaining all society, lived in his garden, which he cultivated exclusively himself, liking the world of plants better than that of men. Only a very important event could make him go out of his way, and this could only be an offer of marriage. And she thought of the absent Paule with emotion. She would find happiness awaiting her when she got back.

But this strange rose-lover was in no hurry to do this errand. He had at last succeeded in pulling the rose that had captivated him from its vase.

“Jean is quite well, Madame,” he replied carelessly, and then went on: “Yes, this kind is, so to speak, unknown in France. I will put it in my catalogue. Will you allow me, Madame, to carry away this specimen?”

“Please do, Monsieur,” acquiesced Madame Guibert, courteously. She was afraid she had been mistaken and was trembling for her hopes.

“A thousand thanks, Madame. I must fly to see about it before it fades.”

On the threshold the old man stopped and in a mysterious voice, which made the poor lady start, said:

“I have a secret to tell you. I have managed to grow a new rose by skilful grafting. You shall see it. It has no name yet. I am going to give it your daughter’s. My nephew will be delighted. It shall be called Madame Paule Berlier!”

And without having revealed his errand, otherwise than in this odd way, he vanished, still holding the flower in his hands and gazing at it.

Madame Guibert as she watched him disappear in the distance could not repress a smile.

“The poor man! He has forgotten all for his rose.”

Jean on his way to meet M. Loigny had arrived at the oakwood which lines the road to Vimines hill. He heard the noise of grinding wheels held back by the brake and soon he saw the carriage through the branches. Impatiently he hurried on in spite of the hill.

“Well, Uncle?” he cried.

M. Loigny lifted his flower in the air with a triumphant gesture which reassured the young man.

“Look here! A rose that I haven’t got in my collection!”

“What’s that to me?” said Jean brusquely. “Will she have me or not?”

The old man let fall the stalk that he held so carefully, put his hands to his head, and cried,

“Good heavens, I must be mad, I am dangerously mad. I forgot all about your offer!”

Jean looked at him pityingly. “So you forgot!” he said.

“But I am going back,” said M. Loigny, sitting up straight.

“No, I will go myself. Go back to your flowers, Uncle.”

And he went on his way to Le Maupas.

The old man followed him with his eye as far as the turn in the road. Then he wiped his face, made a sign to the coachman to continue, and for the first time went home to Rose Villa without any feeling of pleasure.

Jean discovered Madame Guibert in the garden at Le Maupas. She smiled when she saw him, sweetly and shyly. And he felt his heart lighten.

“Good afternoon, Jean. Your uncle has just been to see me. Did you know it?”

“Yes, Madame, he came with a message that he forgot to give you. For him that is nothing.”

“Oh, don’t be hard on him!”

And with a timid grace she took the young man’s hand in hers.

“Be easy in your mind. I am acquainted with the language of flowers!”

They sat down by the stone table under the trees. Jean kissed her hand. They understood each other already.

“So you know that I love her?” asked Jean with emotion. Then in a firmer voice he added:

“How could I help loving her, Madame?”

“She is worthy of it,” answered Paule’s mother, who was thinking of the new future.

“I think I have always loved her. Only I did not know my mind. When one is too young, one cannot clearly distinguish the plan of one’s life. And I shall love her for ever.”

“Yes,” she answered gravely. “Before binding oneself with eternal vows one must be sure of oneself. And I have confidence in you.”

“I see Marcel’s courage and his pride once more in Paule,” said Jean. “I shall bless my fate if it has reserved her affection for me.”

“It is God whom you must bless, Jean. Our strength comes from Him only. Yes, Paule is a darling child. Although I am her mother, I may say that with pride. I shall give her to you joyfully. Have I not always considered you as my son? And were you not like a brother to Marcel?”

“Oh, Madame Guibert, your words are so sweet to me. But she? ...”

“Don’t be afraid about her, Jean. She will accept you, I think. But you must ask her yourself. You have reflected well, have you not, about your future home? We are not rich, as you know. My son Étienne and I are willing to give to Paule, if she will be your wife, the rents of the Maupas estate. It does not bring in much since the vineyards were separated from it. We cannot do more.”

She was giving up everything and made excuses for doing no more.

“I do not wish it, Madame,” said Jean.

“Let me finish what I have to say. I am anxious to retire. I need very little to live on. Étienne, being able to do it, gives me an allowance which, in spite of all I can say, he will not make smaller. You must think of your future prospects, Jean.”

“Oh, Madame Guibert, what treasure can be compared to Paule’s heart? But do not think I should ever consent to accept your more than generous offer. I have already thought about our material future. Étienne needs help in Tonkin. In all his letters he keeps asking for a partner to develop the enterprises which are too great for him alone. Well, I have offered him my help. Out in Algiers I used to interest myself in everything concerning the soil. I will go to Tonkin. I wrote to him last month.”

“And you will take your wife out there?”

At this moment Jean’s attention was turned to the steps, where Paule had just appeared, so he did not see two tears gush from Madame Guibert’s eyes. When he looked at her she was already prepared for the new sacrifice which life asked of her, and it was in a firm voice that she said:

“May God bless your plans! Here is my girl, Jean. She has known loneliness and sorrow too long. She needs happiness. How happy she will be with your love! She will feel her youth, which she had forgotten. Jean, you may tell her that you love her.”

Then she added in lower tones—for Paule was coming nearer—and he did not hear her words:

“I give you my last, my dearest child.”

Tall and erect, Paule came across the courtyard and joined them under the shadow of the chestnuts. Her black dress made her look a little formal as she greeted the young man. He had risen and gone to meet her. A slight flush heightened her color, while her dark eyes lighted up. She kissed her mother:

“I have just come from the farm. We shall have the butter and eggs to-morrow.”

Madame Guibert gazed at them both with motherly eyes. She rose from the basket-chair where she had been sitting.

“I am going in to see about dinner. You will excuse me, Jean. How lovely it is this evening. You have not been out all day, Paule. You should have a walk together before the sun sets. Go as far as the Montcharvin wood and come back. Come back soon, my children!”

She could not resist calling them her children. She watched them go down the chestnut avenue side by side with rapid steps.

“How tall she is!” she said to herself. “He is only half a head taller than she. And he is very tall. A fine couple!”

They disappeared behind the trees. Slowly and with a heavy heart the old lady went in to her house, and as she prepared herself for this last sacrifice she repeated to herself:

“My darling little Paule, and I have lost her! May you be happy. You have deserved it for your dear care of me. Be happy—it is all I ask of God.”

Above the Vimines road, a path cut off by a screen of poplars from Forezan’s steep slopes skirts the fields and leads to Montcharvin farm. Paule and Jean followed it, the girl walking in front.

“Let us go as far as the ash-wood,” she said. “We shall be able to see the sunset reflected on the mountains through the trees.”

He stopped. “No, let us stay here, will you not?” And he pointed to the old felled tree-trunk which served as a bench. She had never sat there since her last walk with Marcel. Thinking of this, she hesitated. She had no idea what Jean had to say to her. Little accustomed to thinking of her own affairs and resigned to her destiny as a penniless girl, she never gave love or marriage a thought. She believed she had stifled forever the feelings which had once caused her so much suffering, and kept jealous watch over the heart for which no one asked. She consented to sit down. For a moment they were silent, side by side.

The sun had disappeared behind the nearby mountains. Round them they were conscious of the peace of evening falling over the land, like a holy presence. At their feet the ripe cornfields waved gently. Further away the trees in the wood gathered their leaves together and sought calm repose. On the horizon the cliffs of Mount Revard, still touched by the sunlight, shone with bright pinks and violets. The happy omen in this peace of nature increased Jean’s emotion. He looked at the girl beside him and was happy at the thought of what he was about to say to her.

She remembered with painful clearness the words which Marcel had spoken to her on this same tree-trunk on the evening before he left for Africa.

“Paule,” she could hear in the voice that was for ever hushed, “do not be anxious, you will be happy some day.” Since Jean’s return she accepted her life bravely and without bitterness. She felt a kind of stoical happiness which satisfied her after so many blows. Was that the happiness Marcel had meant? In this peaceful hour, the vague longing for joy of another kind rose up in her. Still, she did not know that the time had come.

Jean made up his mind to speak.

“I have been speaking to your mother, Paule, of my plans for the future,” he said.

She looked at him.

“Your leave is up already? You are going away again soon?”

“I am not going back to the regiment.”

In her surprise she waited for his explanation.

“I am going to resign.”

“You, Jean! Oh, that is a mistake. You are not thirty yet, you have the Legion of Honor and you are giving up your career! What would Marcel have thought?”

“Marcel would have agreed with me—because I shall serve France in another way, which will not be less useful. From being a soldier I shall become a colonist. I have written to your brother Étienne, who finds his work at Tonkin too much for him. I am going to join him.”

“Oh,” she said. “How glad they will be out there! They know what good friends you and Marcel were. You will tell them about him as you have told us. You will see my nephew and my niece. You will know them before I do.”

The shadows were falling over the plain and began to climb the mountain slopes. Over Lake Bourget far away, hung a violet haze, mingling itself by degrees in the pink and gold of the sky. Evening was enveloping still nature like a blessing.

Jean rose and stood before the girl.

“Your brothers would be much happier if they knew my other plan.” And lowering his eyes to the ground, he added more gently:

“It is a plan infinitely dear to me. Your mother knows what it is.”

He looked at her and saw with surprise that she suspected nothing. He admired this forgetfulness of self, and gravely, with deep tenderness, brought out the decisive words at last:

“Paule, I love you. Will you be my wife and go out there with me?”

She rose in her turn, unable to speak and deathly pale. Her heaving bosom showed the tumult of her heart.

He continued: “I love you, Paule. Did you not know it? Did you not guess it? When I came back from Algiers I found you so brave—and so beautiful. Oh, don’t say no! During the crossing of the Sahara, I remember, Marcel often told me, when we were talking about Savoy, that you were your mother’s comfort. Whenever I was looking for something to stir up my energy, some picture to cheer me and arouse my courage, I thought of you. I know I have always loved you, since the time we were children, when I laughed at your long black hair. My happiness lies in your hands, Paule. Will you not give it to me?”

She made no reply. She was so pale that it seemed as if the blood had left her veins. He took her hand, which she did not withdraw. He waited, confident and calm, his heart swelling with hope.

She gazed at the peaceful countryside unseeingly. The summits of Mount Revard ceased to reflect the sunset glow. All nature was wrapped in the shadow which precedes sleep.

Was not this the happiness that Marcel had predicted for her, on this very spot, during a similar sunset?

As she continued silent, Jean was racked with intolerable anguish. In an altered voice he repeated for the third time.

“Paule, I love you. Why do you not speak? Answer me, I beg you.”

Gently the girl released her hand.

“No, no, I cannot,” she said.

Sobs choked her voice, and she fled towards the house.

Then he felt the night fall even upon his heart. He hated the life he had once adored and envied Marcel dead on the African sands, Marcel wrapped in infinite peace.