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virtue; loathsome comedy where all is whispering and oblique glances,
where all is small, elegant and deformed like the porcelain monsters
brought from China; lamentable derision of all that is beautiful and
ugly, divine and infernal; a shadow without a body, a skeleton of all
that God has made."
Thus spoke Desgenais; and the shadows of night began to fall.
CHAPTER VI
THE next morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the day was dark
and threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins on the back of
my horse and abandoned myself to reverie, revolving in my mind the words
spoken by Desgenais the evening before.
Suddenly I heard my name called. Turning my head I spied one of my
mistress's most intimate friends in an open carriage. She called to me to
stop, and, holding out her hand with a friendly air, invited me to dine
with her if I had no other engagement.
This woman, Madame Levasseur by name, was small, stout, and decidedly
blonde; I had never liked her and my attitude toward her had always been
one of studied politeness. But I could not resist a desire to accept her
invitation; I pressed her hand and thanked her; I was sure we would talk
of my mistress.
She sent a servant to lead my horse and I entered her carriage; she was
alone and we at once took the road to Paris. Rain began to fall, and the
carriage curtains were drawn; thus shut up together we rode on in
silence. I looked at her with inexpressible sadness; she was not only the
friend of my faithless one but her confidante. She had often formed one
of our party when I called on my mistress in the evening! With what
impatience had I endured her presence. How often I counted the minutes
that must elapse before she would leave! That was probably the cause of
my aversion for her. I knew that she approved of our love; she even went
so far as to defend me in our quarrels. In spite of the services she had
rendered me, I considered her ugly and tiresome. Alas! now I found her
beautiful! I looked at her hands, her clothes; every gesture went
straight to my heart; all the past was associated with her. She noticed
the change in manner and understood that I was oppressed by sad memories
of the past. Thus we rode on our way, I looking at her; she smiling at
me. When we reached Paris she took my hand:
"Well?" she said.
"Well?" I replied, sobbing, "tell her if you wish." Tears rushed from my
eyes.
After dinner we sat before the fire.
"But tell me," she said, "is it irrevocable? Can nothing be done?"
"Alas! madame," I replied, "there is nothing irrevocable except the grief
that is killing me. My condition can be expressed in a few words: I can
not love her, I can not love another, and I can not cease loving."
At these words she moved uneasily in her chair and I could see an
expression of compassion on her face. For some time she seemed to be
reflecting, as though pondering over my fate and seeking some remedy for
my sorrow. Her eyes were closed and she appeared lost in reverie. She
extended her hand and I took it in mine.
"And I, too," she murmured, "that is just my experience." She stopped,
overcome by emotion.
Of all the sisters of love, the most beautiful is pity. I held Madame
Levasseur's hand as she began to speak of my mistress, saying all she
could think of in her favor. My sadness increased. What could I reply?
Finally she came to speak of herself.
Not long since, she said, a man who loved her had abandoned her. She had
made great sacrifices for him; her fortune was compromised as well as her
honor and her name. Her husband, whom she knew to be vindictive, had made
threats. Her tears flowed as she continued, and I began to forget my own
sorrow in my sympathy for her. She had been married against her will; she
struggled a long time; but she regretted nothing except that she had not
been able to inspire a more sincere affection. I believe she even accused
herself because she had not been able to hold her lover's heart, and
because she had been guilty of apparent indifference.
When she had unburdened her heart she became silent.
"Madame," I said, "it was not chance that brought about our meeting in
the Bois de Boulogne. I believe that human sorrows are but wandering
sisters and that some good angel unites the trembling hands that are
stretched out for aid. Do not repent having told me your sorrow. The
secret you have confided to me is only a tear which has fallen from your
eye, but has rested on my heart. Permit me to come again and let us
suffer together."
Such lively sympathy took possession of me that without reflection I
kissed her; it did not occur to my mind that it could offend her and she
did not appear even to notice it.
Our conversation continued in this tone of great friendship. She told me [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]