Part 19 (1/2)
One night, we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led to the rock. Brigitte was tramping along so stoutly, her little velvet cap on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute gamin, that I forgot that she was a woman when there were no obstacles in our path.
More than once, she was obliged to call me to her aid when I, without thinking of her, had pushed on ahead. I can not describe the effect produced on me in the clear night air, in the midst of the forest, by that voice of a woman, half-joyous and half-plaintive, coming from that little schoolboy body wedged in between roots and trunks of trees, unable to advance. I took her in my arms.
”Come, madame,” I cried, laughing, ”you are a pretty little mountaineer, but you are blistering your white hands and in spite of your hobnailed shoes, your stick and your martial air, I see that you must be carried.”
We arrived at the rock breathless, about my body was strapped a leather belt to which was attached a wicker bottle. When we were seated on the rock, my dear Brigitte asked for the bottle; I had lost it, as well as a tinder-box which served another purpose: that was to read the inscriptions on the guide-posts when we went astray, which occurred frequently. At such times, I would climb the posts and read the half-effaced inscription by the light of the tinder-box; all that playfully, like the children that we were. At a cross-road, we would have to examine not one guide-post, but five or six until the right one was found. But this time we had lost our baggage on the way.
”Very well,” said Brigitte, ”we will pa.s.s the night here as I am rather tired. This rock will make a hard bed but we can cover it with dry leaves. Let us sit down and make the best of it.”
The night was superb; the moon was rising behind us; I looked at it over my left shoulder. Brigitte was watching the lines of the wooded hills as they began to design themselves against the background of sky. As the light flooded the copse and threw its halo over sleeping nature, Brigitte's song became more gentle and more melancholy. Then she bent over, and, throwing her arms around my neck, said:
”Do not think that I do not understand your heart or that I would reproach you for what you make me suffer. It is not your fault, my friend, if you have not the power to forget your past life; you have loved me in good faith and I shall never regret, although I should die for it, the day I gave myself to you. You thought you were entering upon a new life and that with me, you would forget the women who had deceived you. Alas! Octave, I used to smile at that precocious experience which you said you had been through, and of which I heard you boast like a child who knows nothing of life. I thought I had but to will it, and all that there was that was good in your heart would come to your lips with my first kiss. You, too, believed it, but we were both mistaken. O my child! You have, in your heart, a plague that can not be cured; that woman who deceived you, how you must have loved her! Yes, more than you love me, alas! much more, since with all my poor love I can not efface her image; she must have deceived you most cruelly since it is in vain that I am faithful! And the others, those wretches who then poisoned your youth! The pleasures they sold must have been terrible since you ask me to imitate them! You remember them with me! Alas! my dear child, that is too cruel. I like you better when you are unjust and furious, when you reproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by others, than when you are under the influence of that frightful gaiety, when you a.s.sume that air of hideous mockery, when that mask of scorn affronts my eyes. Tell me, Octave, why that? Why those moments when you speak of love with contempt and rail at the most sacred mysteries of love? What frightful power over your irritable nerves has that life you have led, that such insults mount to your lips in spite of you? Yes, in spite of you, for your heart is n.o.ble, you blush at your own blasphemy; you love me too much not to suffer when you see me suffer. Ah! I know you now. The first time I saw you thus, I was seized with a feeling of terror of which I can give you no idea. I thought you were only a roue, that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not feel, and that I saw you such as you really were. O my friend! I thought it was time to die; what a night I pa.s.sed! You do not know my life; you do not know that I, who speak to you, have had an experience as terrible as yours. Alas! life is sweet only to those who do not know life.
”You are not, my dear Octave, the only man I have loved. There is hidden in my heart a fatal story that I wish you to know. My father destined me, when I was quite young, for the only son of an old friend. They were neighbors and each owned a little domain of almost equal value. The two families saw each other every day and lived, so to speak, together. My father died; my mother had been dead some time. I lived with an aunt whom you know. A journey she was compelled to take, forced her to confide me to the care of my future father-in-law. He called me his daughter and it was so well known about the country that I was to marry his son that we were allowed the greatest liberty together.
”That young man, whose name you need not know, appeared to love me. What had been friends.h.i.+p from infancy, became love in time. He began to tell me of the happiness that awaited us; he spoke of his impatience, I was only one year younger than he; but he had made the acquaintance of a man of dissipated habits who lived in the vicinity, a sort of adventurer, and had listened to his evil suggestions. While I was yielding to his caresses with the confidence of a child, he resolved to deceive his father and to abandon me after having ruined me.
”His father called us into his room one evening and, in the presence of the family, set the day of our wedding. The very evening before that day, he met me in the garden and spoke to me of love with more force than usual; he said that, since the time was set, we were just the same as married, and for that matter had been in the eyes of G.o.d, ever since our birth. I have no other excuse to offer than my youth, my ignorance and my confidence in him. I gave myself to him before becoming his wife, and eight days afterward he left his father's house; he fled with a woman with whom his new friend had made him acquainted; he wrote that he had set out for Germany and that we would never see him again.
”That is, in a word, the story of my life; my husband knew it as you now know it. I am proud, my child, and I have sworn that no man should ever make me again suffer what I suffered then. I saw you and forgot my oath, but not my sorrow. You must treat me gently; if you are sick, I am also; we must care for each other. You see, Octave, I too know what it is to cherish up memories of the past. It inspires me at times with cruel terror; I should have more courage than you, for perhaps I have suffered more. It is my place to begin; my heart is not sure of itself, I am still very feeble; my life in this village was so tranquil before you came! I had promised myself that it should never change! All that, makes me exacting. Ah! well, it does not matter, I am yours. You have told me, in your better moments, that Providence appointed me to watch over you as a mother. Yes, when you make me suffer, I do not look upon you as a lover, but as a sick child, fretful and rebellious, that I must care for and cure in order that I may always keep him and love him. May G.o.d give me that power!” she added, looking up to heaven. ”May G.o.d, who sees me, who hears us, may the G.o.d of mothers and of lovers, permit me to accomplish that task! When I feel as though I would sink under it, when my pride rebels, when my heart is breaking, when all my life--”
She could not finish; her tears choked her. O G.o.d! I saw her there on her knees, her hands clasped on the rock; she swayed in the breeze as did the bushes about us. Frail and sublime creature; she prayed for her love. I raised her in my arms.
”O my only friend!” I cried. ”Oh! my mistress, my mother, and my sister!
Pray also for me, that I may be able to love you as you deserve. Pray that I may have the courage to live; that my heart may be cleansed in your tears; that it may become a holy offering before G.o.d and that we may share it together.”
All was silent about us; above our heads, spread the heavens resplendent with stars.
”Do you remember,” I said, ”do you remember the first day?”
From that night, we never returned to that spot. That rock was an altar which has retained its purity; it is one of the visions of my life which still pa.s.ses before my eyes wreathed in spotless white.
CHAPTER IV
AS I was crossing the public square one evening, I saw two men standing together; one of them said:
”It appears to me that he has ill-treated her.”
”It is her fault,” replied the other; ”why choose such a man? He has known only public women; she is paying the price of her folly.”
I advanced in the darkness to see who was speaking thus, and to hear more if possible; but they pa.s.sed on as soon as they spied me.
I found Brigitte much disturbed; her aunt was seriously ill; she had time for only a few words with me. I did not see her for an entire week; I knew that she had summoned a physician from Paris; finally, she sent for me.
”My aunt is dead,” she said; ”I lose the only one left me on earth, I am now alone in the world and I am going to leave the country.”
”Am I, then, nothing to you?”
”Yes, my friend; you know that I love you, and I often believe that you love me. But how can I count on you? I am your mistress, alas! but you are not my lover. It is for you that Shakespeare has written these sad words: 'Make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal.' And I, Octave,” she added, pointing to her mourning costume, ”I am reduced to a single color, and I shall not change it for a long time.”
”Leave the country if you choose; I will either kill myself or I will follow you. Ah! Brigitte,” I continued, throwing myself on my knees before her, ”you thought you were alone when your aunt died! That is the most cruel punishment you could inflict on me; never, have I so keenly felt the misery of my love for you. You must retract those terrible words; I deserve them, but they will kill me. O G.o.d! can it be true that I count for nothing in your life, or that I am an influence in your life only because of the evil I have done you!”