 Chapter 3, Part 4, Book 2 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriWalks recording, all LibriWalks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Recording by Chessie. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée. Translated by Candle Warren. Book 2, Part 4, Chapter 3. Our quarrel had been less sad than our reconciliation. It was attended on Brigid's part by a mystery which frightened me at first and then planted in my soul the seeds of constant dread. There developed in me, in spite of my struggles, the two elements of misfortune which the past had bequeathed me. At times furious jealousy attended by reproaches and insults. At other times a cruel gaiety, an affected cheerfulness that mockingly outraged whatever I held most dear. Thus the inexorable specters of the past pursued me without respite. Thus Brigid, seeing herself treated alternately as a faithless mistress and a shameless woman, fell into a condition of melancholy that clouded our entire life. And worst of all, that sadness even, the cause of which I knew, was not the most burdensome of our sorrows. I was young and I loved pleasure. That daily association with a woman older than I, who suffered and languished, that faced more and more serious which was always before me, all that repelled my youth and aroused within me bitter regrets for the liberty I had lost. When we were passing through the forest by the beautiful light of the moon, we both experienced a profound melancholy. Brigid looked at me in pity. We sat down on a rock near a wild gorge. We passed two entire hours there. The half-wailed eyes plunged into my soul of watch the glance from mine. Then wandered to nature, to the heavens and the valley. Ah, my dear child, she said, how I pity you. You do not love me. In order to reach that rock one must travel two leagues. Two more in returning makes four. Brigid was afraid of neither fatigue nor darkness. We sat out at eleven at night, expecting to reach home some time in the morning. When we went on long trams, she always dressed in the blue blouse and the apparel of a man, saying that skirts were not made for bushes. She walked before me in the sand with a firm step and such a charming melange of feminine delicacy and childlike temerity that I stopped every few moments to look at her. It seemed that, once started, she had to accomplish a difficult but sacred task. She walked in front like a soldier, her arms swinging, her voice ringing through the woods in song. Suddenly she turned, came to me and kissed me. This was going. Then the return she leaned on my arm. Then more songs. There were confidences, tender owowls in low tones, although we were alone, two leagues from anywhere. I do not recall a single word spoken on the return that was not of love or friendship. One night we struck out through the woods, leaving the road which led to the rock. It was tramping along so stoutly. Her little velvet cap on her light hair made her look so much like a resolute gammon 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 cannot 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, madam, I cried, laughing. You are a pretty little mountaineer, but you are blistering your white hands, and in spite of your hobnail 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 ladder 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 tinderbox which served another purpose. It was to read the inscriptions on the guideposts when we went astray, which occurred frequently. At such times I would climb the post and read the half-effaced inscription by the light of the tinderbox, all that playfully like the children that we were. At the crossroad we would have to examine not one guidepost 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 pass 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 the sky. As the light flooded the corpse 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. Oh, my child, you have in your heart a plague that cannot 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 cannot 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 asked me to imitate them. You remember them with me. Alas, my dear child, that is too cruel. I like you better when you are unchaste and furious, when you reproach me for imaginary crimes and avenge on me the wrong done you by others. Then when you are under the influence of that frightful gaiety, when you assume 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 noble, 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 ruay that you had deliberately deceived me by feigning a love you did not feel and that I saw you such as you really were. Oh, my friend, I thought it was time to die. What a night I passed. 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 friendship 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 God 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 God give me that power, she added, looking up to heaven. May God, who sees me, who hears us, may the God 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. Oh, God, 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 raced her in my arms. Oh, 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 God 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 passes before my eyes, breathed and spotless white. Chapter 4, Part 4, Book 2 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriWalks recording. All LibriWalks recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Recording by Chessie. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée. Translated by Kendall Warren. Book 2, Part 4, Chapter 4. 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 passed 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 morning 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. However, 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. Oh, God, 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? I do not know, she said, who is busying himself in our affairs. In insinuations, mixed with idle gossip, have been set afloat in the village and in the neighbouring country. Some say that I have been ruined. Others accuse me of imprudence and folly. Others represent you as a cruel and dangerous man. Someone has spied into our most secret thoughts. Things that I thought no one else knew. Things in your life and sad scenes to which they have led are known to others. My poor aunt spoke to me about it some time since, and she knew it some time before speaking to me. Who knows but what that has hastened her death. When I meet my old friends in the street, they either treat me coldly or turn aside. When my dear peasant girls, those good girls who love me so much, shrug their shoulders when they see my place empty at the Sunday afternoon bolt. How has that come about? I do not know, nor do you I suppose, but I must go away, I cannot endure it. And my aunt's death so sudden, so unexpected, above all the solitude, this empty room. Courage fails me. My friend, my friend, do not abandon me. She wept. In an adjoining room I saw her household goods in disorder, a trunk on the floor, everything indicating preparations for departure. It was evident that, at the time of her aunt's death, Brigitte tried to go away without seeing me, but could not. She was so overwhelmed with emotion that she could hardly speak. Her condition was pitiful, and it was I who had brought her to it. Not only was she unhappy, but she was insulted in public, and the man who ought to be her support and her consolation in such an hour was the cause of all her troubles. I felt the wrong I had done her so keenly that I was overcome with shame. After so many promises, so much useless exaltation, so many plans and hopes, what had I in fact accomplished in three months? I thought I had a treasure in my heart, and there came out of it nothing but malice, the shadow of a dream and the misfortune of a woman I adored. For the first time I found myself really face to face with myself. Brigitte reproached me for nothing. She had tried to go away and could not. She was ready to suffer still. I suddenly asked myself if I ought not to leave her, if it was not my duty to flee from her and rid her of the scotch of my presence. I arose and, passing into the next room, sat down on Brigitte's trunk. There I leaned my head on my hand and said motionless. I looked about me at the confused piles of goods. Alas, I knew them all. My heart was not so hardened that it could not be moved by the memories which they awakened. I began to calculate all the harm I had done. I saw my dear Brigitte walking under the lintons with her goat beside her. Oh, man, I'm used. And by what right? How dared you come to this house and lay hands on this woman? Who has ordained that she should suffer for you? You array yourself in fine linen and set out, sleek and happy, for the home where your mistress languishes. You throw yourself upon the cushions where she has just knelt in prayer for you and for her, and you gently stroke those delicate hands that still tremble. You think it no evil to inflame a poor heart, and you perorate as warmly in your deliriums of love as the wretched lawyer who comes with red eyes from a suit he has lost. You play the infant prodigy. You make sport of suffering. You find it amusing to occupy your leisure moments, to commit murder by means of little pinpricks. What will you say to the living God when your work is finished? What will become of the woman who loves you? Where will you fall while she leans on you for support? With what face will you one day bury your pale and wretched creature who has just buried the only being who was left to protect her? Yes, yes, you will doubtless have to bury her, for your love kills and consumes. You have devoted her to the furies, and it is she who appeases them. If you follow that woman, you will be the cause of her death. Take care, her guardian angel hesitates. He has just knocked at the door of this house in order to frighten away a fatal and shameful passion. He inspired Brigitte with the idea of light. At this moment he may be whispering in her ear his final warning. Oh, you assassin, you murderer, beware, it is a matter of life and death. Thus I communed with myself. Then on the sofa I caught sight of a little gingham dress, folded and ready to be packed in the trunk. It had been the witness of our happy days. I took it up and examined it. I leave you, I said to it, I lose you. Oh, little dress, would you go away without me? No, I cannot abandon Brigitte. Under the circumstances it would be cowardly. She has just lost her aunt and is all alone. She is exposed to the power of I know not what enemy. Can it be Mercourçon? He may have spoken of my conversation with him, and seeing that I was jealous of Dalon may have guessed the rest. Assuredly he is the snake who has been hissing about my well-beloved flower. I must punish him, and I must repair the wrong I have done Brigitte. Fool that I am. I think of leaving her when I ought to consecrate my life to her, to the expiation of my sins, to rendering her happy after the tears I have drawn from her eyes. When I am her only support in the world, her only friend, her only protection. When I ought to follow her to the end of the world, to shelter her with my body, to console her for having loved me, for having given herself to me. Brigitte! I cried, returning to her room. Wait an hour for me, and I will return. Where are you going? She asked. Wait for me, I replied. Do not set out without me. Remember the words of Ruth. Whether thou ghost I shall go, and where thou lodgest I will lodge. Thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God, where thou diced will I die, and there will I be buried. I left her precipitately, and rushed out to find Mercançon. I was told that he had gone out, and I entered his house to wait for him. I sat in the corner of the room on a priest's chair before a dirty black table. I was becoming impatient when I recalled my duel on account of my first mistress. I received a wound from a bullet, and am still a fool, I said to myself. What have I come to do here? This priest will not fight. If I seek a quarrel with him, he will say that his priestly robes forbid, and he will continue his wild gossip when I have gone. Moreover, for what can I hold him responsible? What is it that has disturbed Brigitte? They say that her reputation has been solid, that I ill-treat her, and that she ought not to submit to it. What stupidity! That concerns no one. There is nothing to do but allow them to talk. In such a case, to notice an insult is to give it importance. Is it possible to prevent provincials from talking about their neighbours? Can anyone prevent a gossip from aligning a woman who loves? What measures can be taken to stop a public rumour? If they say that I ill-treat her, it is for me to prove the contrary by my contact with her and not by violence. It would be as ridiculous to seek a quarrel with Mercançon as to leave the country on account of gossip. No, we must not leave the country. That would be a bad move. That would be to say to all the world that there is truth in its idle rumours, and to give excuse to the gossip. We must neither go away nor take any notice of such things. I returned to Brigitte. A half hour had passed and I had changed my mind three times. I dissuaded her from her plans. I told her what I had just done and why I had not carried out my first impulse. She listened resignedly, yet she wished to go away. The house where her aunt had died had become odious to her. Much effort and persuasion on my part were required to get her to consent to remain. Finally I accomplished it. We repeated that we would despise the world, that we would yield nothing, that we would not change our manner of life. I swore that my love should console her for all her sorrows, and she pretended to hope for the best. I told her that this circumstance had so enlightened me in the matter of the wrongs I had done her, that my conduct would prove my repentance. That I would drive from me as a phantom all the evil that remained in my heart. That henceforth she would not be offended by either my pride or my caprices. And thus, sad and patient, her arms around my neck, she yielded obedience to the pure caprice that I myself mistook for a flash of reason. End of Chapter 4, Part 4, Book 2. Chapter 5, Part 4, Book 2 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is the LibriWalk's recording. All LibriWalk's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Recording by Chessie, Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée, translated by Candle Warren. Book 2, Part 4, Chapter 5. One day I saw a little chamber she called her oratory. There was no furniture except a pretty deer and a little altar with a cross and some waises of flowers. As for the rest, the walls and curtains were as white as snow. She shut herself up in that room at times, but rarely since I had known her. I stepped to the door and saw Brigitte seated on the floor in the middle of the room surrounded by the flowers she was throwing here and there. She held in her hand a little reef that appeared to be made of dried grass, and she was breaking it to pieces. What are you doing? I asked. She trembled and stood up. It is nothing but a child's plaything, she said. It is a rose reef that has faded here in the oratory. I have come here to change my flowers as I have not attended to them for some time. Her voice trembled and she appeared to be about to faint. I recalled that name of Brigitte Larose that I had heard given her. I asked her if it was not her crown of roses that she had just broken thus. No, she replied, turning pale. Yes, I cried. Yes, on my life! Give me the pieces! I gathered them up and placed them on the altar. Then I was silent, my eyes fixed on the offering. Was I not right, she asked, if it was my crown to take it from the wall where it has hung so long. What good are these remains? Brigitte Larose is no more, not a flower that baptized her. She went out. I heard her sob and the door closed on me. I fell on my knees and wept bitterly. When I returned to her room I found her waiting for me. Dinner was ready. I took my place in silence and not a word was said of what was on our hearts. End of Chapter 5, Part 4, Book 2. Chapter 6, Part 4, Book 2 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriWalk's recording. All LibriWalk's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Recording by Chessie. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée. Translated by Candle Warren. Book 2, Part 4, Chapter 6. It was Mare-Consort who had repeated in the village and in the château my conversation with him about Dalon and the suspicions that in spite of myself I had allowed him clearly to see. Everyone knows how bad news travels in the provinces. Flying from mouth to mouth and growing as it flies. That is what happened in this case. Brigitte and I found ourselves face to face with each other in a new position. However feebly she may have tried to flee, she had nevertheless made the attempt. It was an account of my prayers that she remained. There was an obligation implied. I was under oath not to grieve her either by my jealousy or my levity. Every thoughtless or mocking word that escaped me was a sin. Every sorrowful glance from her was a reproach acknowledged and merited. Her simple good nature gave a charm even to solitude. She could see me now at all hours without resorting to any precaution. Perhaps she consented to this arrangement in order to prove to me that she valued her love more highly than her reputation. She seemed to regret having shown that she cared for the representations of malice. At any rate, instead of making any attempt to disarm criticism of ward curiosity, we lived the freest kind of life, more regardless of public opinion than ever. For some time I kept my word and not a cloud troubled our life. These were happy days, but it is not of these that I must speak. It was at everywhere about the country that Brigitte was living publicly with a Libertine from Paris, that her lover ill-treated her, that they spent their time quarrelling and that all of it would come to a bad end. As they had praised Brigitte for her conduct in the past, so they blamed her now. There was nothing in her past life even that was not picked to pieces and misrepresented. Her lonely trams over the mountains, when engaged in works of charity, suddenly became the subject of quibbles and of railery. They spoke of her as of a woman who had lost all human respect and who deserved the frightful misfortune she was throwing down on her head. I had told Brigitte that it was best to let them talk and pay no attention to them. But the truth is, it became unsupportable to me. I sometimes tried to catch a word that I might consider an insult and demand an explanation. I listened to whispered conversations in a salon where I was a visitor, but could hear nothing. In order to do us better justice, they waited until I had gone. I returned to Brigitte and told her that all these stories were mere nonsense, that it was foolish to notice them, that they could talk about us as much as they pleased and we would care nothing about it. Was I not terribly mistaken? If Brigitte was imprudent, was it not my place to be cautious and ward off danger? On the contrary, I took so to speak the part of the world against her. I began by indifference. I was soon to grow malignant. It is true, I said, that they speak evil of your nocturnal excursions. Are you sure that they are wrong? Has nothing happened in those romantic grottoes and bypass in the forest? Have you never accepted the arm of an unknown as you accepted mine? Was it merely charity that served as your divinity in that beautiful temple of virtue that you visited so bravely? Brigitte's glance when I adopted this tone, I shall never forget. I shuddered at it myself. But ba, I thought, she would do the same thing my other mistress did. She would point me out as a ridiculous fool and I would pay for it all in the eyes of the public. Between the man who doubts and the man who denies, there is only a step. All philosophy is related to atheism. After having told Brigitte that I suspected her past conduct, I began to regard it with real suspicion. I came to imagine that Brigitte was deceiving me. She who never left me at any hour of the day. I sometimes planned long absences in order to test her as I supposed. But in truth it was only to give myself some excuse for suspicion and mockery. And then I took pleasure in observing that I had outgrown my foolish jealousy, which was the same as saying that I no longer esteemed her highly enough to be jealous of her. At first I kept such thoughts to myself, but soon found pleasure in revealing them to Brigitte. We went out for a walk. "'That dress is pretty,' I said, such and such a girl belonging to one of my friends has one like it. We receded at table. Come, my dear, my former mistress used to sing for me at dessert. It is understood that you are to imitate her.' She said as to Piano. "'Ah, pardon me, but will you play that waltz that was so popular last winter that will remind me of happy times?' Reader, that lasted six months. For six long months Brigitte, scandalised, exposed to the insults of the world, had to endure from me all the wrongs that a ruffle and cruel Libertine could inflict on a woman. Recovering from these frightful scenes, in which my own spirit exhausted itself in suffering and painful contemplation of the past, recovering from that frenzy a strange excess of love, an extreme exaltation, led me to treat my mistress like an idol, like a divinity. A quarter of an hour after having insulted her I was on my knees before her. When I was not accusing her of some crime, I was begging her pardon. When I was not mocking, I was weeping. Then I was seized by a delirium of joy. I almost lost my reason in the violence of my transports. I did not know what to do, what to say, what to think, in order to repair the evil I had done. I took Brigitte in my arms and made her repeat a hundred times that she loved me and that she pardoned me. I threatened to expiate my evil deeds by blowing out my brains if I ever ill-treated her again. These periods of exaltation sometimes lasted several hours, during which time I exhosted myself in foolish expressions of love and esteem. When morning came, day appeared, I fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and I awakened with a smile on my lips, mocking at everything, believing in nothing. During these terrible hours Brigitte appeared to forget that there was another man in me than the one she saw. When I asked her pardon, she shrugged her shoulders as though to say, Do you not know that I pardon you? She would not complain as long as a spark of love remained in my heart. She assured me that always good and sweet coming from me, insults as well as tears. And yet as time passed my evil grew worse, my moments of malignity and irony became more somber and intractable. A real physical fever attended my outbursts of passion. I awakened trembling in every limb and covered with cold sweat. Brigitte too, although she did not complain of it, began to fail in health. When I began to abuse her she would leave me without a word and lock herself in her room. Thank God I have never raised my hand against her. In my most violent moments I would rather die than touch her. One evening the rain was beating against the windows. We were alone, the curtains closed. I am in happy humour this evening, I said to Brigitte. And yet the beastly weather saddens me. Let us seek some diversion in spite of the storm. I arose and lighted all the candles I could find. The room was small and the illumination brilliant. At the same time a bright fire threw out a stifling heat. Come, I said, what shall we do while waiting until it is time for supper? I happened to remember that it was carnival time in Paris. I seemed to see the carriages filled with masks crossing the boulevards. I heard the shouts of the crowds before the theatres. I saw the lascivious dances, the gay costumes, the wine and the folly. All of my youth bounded in my heart. Let us disguise ourselves, I said to Brigitte. It will be for us alone, but what does that matter? If you have no costumes we can make them and pass away the time agreeably. We searched in the closet for dresses, cloaks and artificial flowers. Brigitte as usual was patient and cheerful. We both arranged a sort of travesty. She wanted to dress my hair herself. We painted and powdered ourselves freely. All that we lacked was found in an old chest that belonged, I believe, to the aunt. In an hour we could not recognize each other. The evening passed in singing in a thousand follies. To watch one in the morning it was time for supper. We had ransacked all the closets. There was one near me that remained open. While sitting down at the table I perceived on a shelf the book of which I have already spoken, the one in which Brigitte was accustomed to write. Is it not a collection of your thoughts? I asked, stretching out my hand and taking the book down. If I may, allow me to look at it. I opened the book, although Brigitte made a gesture as though to prevent me. On the first page I read these words. This is my last will and testament. Everything was written in a firm hand. I found first a faithful recital of all that Brigitte had suffered on my account since she had been my mistress. She announced her firm determination to endure everything so long as I loved her and to die when I left her. Her daily life was recorded there. What she had lost, what she had hoped, the isolation she experienced even in my presence, the barrier that was growing up between us, the cruelties I subjected her to in return for her love and her resignation. All that was written down without a complaint. On the contrary, she undertook to justify me. Then followed personal details, the disposition of her effects. She would end her life by poison, she wrote. She would die by her own hand and expressly forbid that her death should be charged to me. Pray for him, such were her last words. I found in a closet on the same shelf a little box that I remembered I had seen before, filled with a fine bluish powder resembling salt. What is this? I asked of Brigitte, raising the box to my lips. She gave wend to a scream of terror and threw herself upon me. Brigitte, I said, tell me adieu, I shall carry this box away with me. You will forget me, and you will live if you wish to save me from becoming a murderer. I will set out this very night. You will agree with me that God demands it. Give me a last kiss. I bent over her and kissed her forehead. Not yet, she cried in anguish, but I repulsed her and left the room. Three hours later I was ready to set out, and the horses were at the door. It was still raining when I entered the carriage. At the moment the carriage was starting I felt two arms about my neck and a sob on my breast. It was Brigitte. I did all I could to persuade her to remain. I ordered the driver to stop. I even told her that I would return to her when time should have a face to the memory of the wrongs I has done her. I forced myself to prove to her that yesterday was the same as today, today as yesterday. I repeated that I could only render her unhappy, that to attach herself to me was but to make an assassin of me. I resulted to prayers, to wows, to threats even. Her only reply was, You are going away. Take me. Let us take leave of the country. Let us take leave of the past. We cannot live here. Let us go elsewhere, wherever you please. Let us go and die together in some remote corner of the world. We must be happy. I by you, you by me. I kissed her with such passion that I feared my heart would burst. Drive on, I cried to the coachman. We threw ourselves into each other's arms, and the horses set out at a gallop. End of Chapter 6, Part 4, Book 2. Chapter 1, Part 5, Book 3 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriWalk's recording. All LibriWalk's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Recording by Chessie, Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée, translated by Candle Warren. Book 3, Part 5, Chapter 1. Having decided on a long tour, we went first to Paris. The necessary preparations required time, and we took a furnished apartment for one month. The decision to leave France had changed everything. Joy, hope, confidence, all returned. No more sorrow, no more grief over approaching separation. It was now nothing but dreams of happiness and vows of eternal love. I wished once for all to make my dear mistress forget all the suffering I had caused her. How had I been able to resist such proofs of tender affection and courageous resignation? Not only did Brigitte pardon me, but she was willing to make a still greater sacrifice and leave everything for me. As I felt myself unworthy of the devotion she exhibited, I wished to requite her by my love. At last my good angel had triumphed, and admiration and love resumed this way in my heart. Brigitte and I examined a map to determine where we should go to bury ourselves from the world. We had not yet decided, and we found pleasure in that very uncertainty. While glancing over the map we said, Where shall we go? What shall we do? Where shall we begin life anew? How shall I tell how deeply I repented my cruelty when I looked upon her smiling face? A face that laughed at the future, although still pale from the sorrows of the past? Happy projects of future joy! You are perhaps the only true happiness known to man. For eight days we spent our time making purchases and preparing for our departure. Then a young man presented himself at our apartments. He brought letters to Brigitte. After their interview I found her sad and distraught. But I could not guess the cause, unless the letters were from N, that village where I had confessed my love and where Brigitte's only relatives lived. Nevertheless our preparations progressed rapidly and I became impatient to get away. At the same time I was so happy that I could hardly rest. When I arose in the morning, and the sun was shining through our windows, I experienced such transports of joy that I was almost intoxicated with happiness. So anxious was I to prove the sincerity of my love for Brigitte, that I hardly dared kiss the hem of her dress. Her lightest words made me tremble as though her voice was strange to me. I alternated between tears and laughter, and I never spoke of the past except with horror and disgust. Our room was full of our goods scattered about in this order, albums, pictures, books and the dear map we loved so much. We were going and coming about the room. Every few moments I would stop and kneel before Brigitte, who would call me an idler, saying that she had to do all the work and that I was good for nothing. And all sorts of projects flitted through our minds. This alley was far away, but the winters are so delightful there. Genoa is very pretty with its painted houses, its green gardens and the eponynes in the background. But what noise! What crowds! Out of every three men on the street, one is a monk and another a soldier. Florence is sad. It is the middle ages living in the midst of modern life. How can anyone endure those grilled windows and that horrible brown color with which all the houses are soiled? What could we do at Rome? We are not travelling in order to forget ourselves, much less for the sake of instruction. To the Rhine? But the season is over, and although we do not care for the world of fashion, still it is sad to visit its haunts when it has fled them. But Spain? Too many restrictions there. One has to travel like an army on the march and may expect everything except repose. Let us go to Switzerland. Too many people go there, and most of them are deceived as to the nature of its attractions. But it is there our unfolded the three most beautiful colors on God's earth. The azure of the sky, the verger of the plains, and the whiteness of the snows on the summits of glaciers. Let us go, let us go, cried Brigitte. Let us fly away like two birds. Let us pretend, my dear Octave, that we just met each other yesterday. You met me at a ball, I pleased you, and I love you. You tell me that some leagues distant, in a certain little town, you loved a certain Madame Pierson. What past between you and her I do not know. You will not tell me the story of your love for another. And I will whisper to you, that not long since, I loved a terrible fellow who made me very unhappy. You will reprove me and close my mouth, and we will agree never to speak of such things. When Brigitte spoke thus, I experienced a feeling that resembled Everest. I caught her in my arms and cried, Oh God, I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble. I am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth, die all memories of the past, die all cares and regrets. Oh my good brave mistress, you have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I will never love again. Perhaps before I knew you, another woman might have cured me. But now you alone of all the world have power to destroy me or to save me, for I bear on my heart the wound of all the evil I have done you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised, you love me still. If you ever return to that home under those lintens where I first met you, look carefully about that deserted house. You will find a phantom there, for the man who left it and went away with you is not the man who entered it. Is it true that Brigitte and her head all radiant with love was raised to heaven? Is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious world in which you have grown old before your time. Yes, my child, you are going to love. I will have you such as you are, and wherever we go you will forget the day when you will no longer love me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always be thankful for it. Finally we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting place in the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake. I thought I could already breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odour of the word you clad welly. Already low sun, vivay, overland, and beyond the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardi. Already oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude invited us. Already when in the evening with joined hands we looked at one another in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey, mysterious and indescribable worthy go which has in it something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous cords that vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words? All is ready, we are about to go. Suddenly Brigitte became languid. She bowed her head and was silent. When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no in a voice that was scarcely audible. When I spoke of our departure she arose, cold and resigned, and continued her preparations. When I swore to her that she was going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, she shut herself up in her room and wept. When I kissed her she turned pale and awarded her eyes as my lips approached hers. When I told her that nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our plans, she frowned severely. When I begged her to open her heart to me and I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though involuntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our places were marked for the carriage to Bezonçon. I approached her and placed it in her lap. She stretched out her hand, screamed, and fell unconscious at my feet. End of Chapter 1, Part 5, Book 3. Chapter 2, Part 5, Book 3 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriWalk's recording. All LibriWalk's recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriWalks.org. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée, translated by Candle Warren. Book 3, Part 5, Chapter 2. All my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obstinately remained silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the opera, I entered it from force of habit. I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theatre. I was so overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied that I did not live, so to speak, except in myself. And exterior objects made no impression on my senses. All my powers were centred on a single thought. And the more I turned it over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or loss of some friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our dream seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! She concealed it from me. And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice in that woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to base conjecture. In front of me in the gallery sat a young man whose face was not unknown to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him. Suddenly I recognized him. It was he who had brought letters to Brigitte from Anne. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing a large number of spectators, and I was forced to await the entrant. My first thought was that if anyone could enlighten me, it was this young man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pearson the last few days, and I recall the fact that she was always much depressed after his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me. It was possible that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not know all the circumstances, but he could doubtless enlighten me as to the contents of those letters. And there was no reason why I should hesitate about questioning him. When the curtain fell I followed him to the fire. I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and entered the box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last he appeared. I bowed and approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down a stairway. My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other explanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surely knew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another approaching him ought at least to wait for him. We were the only ones in the corridor at that time, and there could be no doubt he did not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man whom I had cordially received at my apartments. Why should he insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkward interview during which questions might be asked which he did not care to answer. But why? The second mystery travelled me almost as much as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that young man's action in avoiding me seems to have some connection with Brigitte's obstinate silence. Uncertainty is of all torments the most difficult to endure. And during my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait patiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte reading those same fateful letters from Anne. I told her that I could not remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at any cost, that I desired to know the cause of the sudden change which had taken place in her. And that if she refused to speak, I would look upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order for me to leave her forever. She reluctantly handed me the letter she was reading. Her relatives had written her that her departure had disgraced them, that everyone knew the circumstances, and that they felt it's their duty to warn her of the consequences. That she was living openly as my mistress, and that, although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to think of the name she bore, that her neither day nor her old friends would ever see her again if she persisted in her course. Finally, by all sorts of threats and entreaties, they urged her to return. The tone of that letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult. And that young man who brings you these remonstrances, I cried, doubtless as orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to do his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right? Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and call my wrath. You will do as you wish and achieve my ruin, she said. My fate rests with you. You have been for a long time my master. A wench as you please the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the world that I formally respected, to the honour that I have lost. I have not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply I will obey you. I care to know nothing, I replied, but your intentions. It is for me to comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tell me, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone? Why that question, asked Brigitte, have I said that I had changed my mind? I am unwell and cannot travel in my present condition, but when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned. We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had expressed her resolution saddened me more than a refusal. It was not the first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives. But up to this time whatever letters Brigitte had received she had never taken so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had been so affected by protests which in less happy moments had had no effect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from an act of final significance? I will do as you please, she had said. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at that sorrowful face even a week longer unless she speaks I will set out alone. Fool that I was, had I the strength to do it? I did not close my eyes that night, and the next morning I resolved to call on that young man I had seen at the opera. I do not know whether it was rough or curiosity that impelled me to this course, nor did I know just what I desired to learn of him. But I reflected that he could not avoid me this time, and that was all I wanted. As I did not know his address I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I felt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had made us. I had not said a word about my experience at the opera. Brigitte's eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out her hand and said, What do you wish? Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words, and I said out less unhappy. The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith. He was living nearby. When I knocked at his door I experienced a strange sensation of uneasiness. I was dazed as though by a sudden flash of light. His first gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his hand and said, What do you wish? Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reason cannot explain. I sat still as though awakened from a dream and began to repeat his questions. Why in fact had I come to see him? How could I tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me, how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from Anne and knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first words were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringing letters to Madame Pierçon. I told him that upon leaving France we would ask him to do the same favour for us. And then we were silent, surprised to find ourselves vis-à-vis. I looked about mean embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor. Everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all. But everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble. As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favour. On the mantle I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at it, and he said it was his mother. I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him. She had known him since childhood. Before I came to the country she used to see him occasionally at N, but at the time of her last visit there he was away. It was therefore only by chance that I had learnt some particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest employment that enabled him to support his sister and mother. His treatment of these two women deserved the highest praise. He deprived himself of everything for them, but although he possessed musical talents that would have enabled him to make a fortune, the immediate needs of those dependent on him and an extreme reserve had always led him to prefer an assured income to the uncertain chances of success in larger ventures. In a word he belonged to that small class who lived quietly and who are worth more to the world than those who do not appreciate them. I had learnt of certain traits in his character which were served to paint the man. He had fallen in love with a beautiful girl in the neighbourhood, and after a year of devotion to her secured her parents' consent to their union. She was as poor as he. The contract was ready to be signed, the preparations for the wedding complete, when his mother said, and your sister, who will marry her? That simple remark made him understand that if he married he would spend all his money in the household expenses, and his sister would have no dowry. He broke off the engagement, bravely renouncing his happy prospects. He then came to Paris. When I heard that story I wanted to see the hero. That simple unassuming act of devotion seemed to me more admirable than all the glories of war. The more I examined that young man, the less I felt inclined to broach the subject nearest my heart. The idea which had first occurred to me that he would harm me in Brigitte's eyes, vanished at once. Gradually my thoughts took another course. I looked at him attentively, and it seemed to me that he was also examining me with curiosity. We were both twenty-one years of age, but what a difference between us. He was accustomed to an existence regulated by the graduated tick of the clock. Never having seen anything of life except that part of it which lies between an obscure room on the fourth floor and the dingy government office. Sending his mother all his savings. That farthing of human joy which the hand of toil clasps so greedily. Having no thought except for the happiness of others, and that since his childhood, since he had been a babe in arms. And I, during that precious time, so swift, so inexorable, during that time that with him was bathed in sweat, what had I done? Was I a man? Which of us had lived? What I have said in a page can be comprehended in a glance. He spoke to me of our journey and the countries we were going to visit. When do you go? He asked. I do not know, Madame Piazzon is unwell and has been confined to her bed for three days. For three days? He repeated in surprise. Yes, why are you astonished? He arose and threw himself on me. His arms extended, his eyes fixed. He was trembling violently. Are you ill? I asked, taking him by the hand. He pressed his hand to his head and burst into tears. When he had recovered sufficiently to speak, he said, Pardon me, be good enough to leave me. I fear I am not well. When I have sufficiently recovered, I will return your visit. End of chapter 2, part 5, book 3. Chapter number 3, part 5, book 3, of confession of a child of the century. This is a LibriVox recording, all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Thomas Cous, Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred D. Muset, translated by Kendall Warren, book 3, part 5, chapter 3. Bridgette was better. She had informed me that she wished to go away as soon as she was well enough to travel. I insisted that she ought to rest at least fifteen days before undertaking a long journey. Whenever I attempted to persuade her to speak frankly, she assured me that the letter was the only cause of her melancholy and begged me to say nothing more about it. Then I tried in vain to guess what was passing in her heart. We went to the theatre every night in order to avoid embarrassing tet-a-tets. We sometimes pressed each other's hands at some fine bit of acting, or beautiful strain of music, or exchanged, perhaps, a friendly glance. But going and returning we were mute, absorbed in our thoughts. Smith came almost every day. Although his presence in the house had been the cause of all my sorrow, and although my visit to him had left singular suspicions in my mind, still his apparent good faith and his simplicity reassured me. I had spoken to him of the letters he had brought, and he did not appear offended but saddened. He was ignorant of the contents of his friendship, for Bridgette led him to censure them severely. He would have refused to carry them, he said, if he knew what they contained. On account of Bridgette's tone of reserve in his presence, I did not think he was in her confidence. I therefore welcomed him with pleasure. Although there was always a sort of awkward embarrassment in our meeting, he was asked to act as intermediary between Bridgette and her relatives after our departure. When we three were together, he noticed a certain coolness and restraint which he endeavored to banish by cheerful good humour. If he spoke of our liaison, it was with respect and as a man who looks upon love as a sacred bond. In fact, he was a kind friend, and he inspired me with full confidence. But despite all that, despite all his efforts, he was sad, and I could not obliterate strange thoughts that came to my mind, the tears I had seen that young man shed, his illness coming on at the same time as Bridgette's. I know not what melancholy sympathy I thought I discovered between them troubled and disquieted me. Not over a month ago I would have become violently jealous, but now of what could I suspect Bridgette, whatever the secret she was concealing from me, was she not going away with me, even if it were possible that Smith could be in some secret of which I knew nothing. What could be the nature of that mystery? What was there to be censured in their sadness and in their friendship? She had known him as a child. She met him again after long years, just as she was about to leave France. She chanced to be in an unfortunate situation, and fate decreed that he should be the instrument of adding to her sorrow. Was it not natural that they should exchange sorrowful glances, that the sight of this young man should awaken memories and regrets? Could he, on the other hand, see her start off on a long journey, prescribed and almost abandoned, without grave apprehensions? I felt that this must be the explanation, and that it was my duty to assure them that I was capable of protecting the one from all dangers, and of re-quitting the other for the services he had rendered, and yet a deadly sense of coldness oppressed me, and I could not determine what course to pursue. When Smith left us in the evening, we either kept silence or talked of him. I do not know what fatal attraction led me to ask about him continually. She however told me just what I have told the reader. His life had never been other than it was at this time, poor, obscure, and honest. I made her repeat the story of his life a number of times, without knowing why I took such interest in it. There was, in my heart, a secret cause of sorrow which I could not confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our great atappiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Bridget, had he pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera, or had he not? Had he shed tears for some unknown reason? What would it matter so long as I was happy? But while unable to divine the cause of Bridget's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted. His simple and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance. One became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence, if not admiration. I could not help but thinking that if he were Bridget's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the end of the earth. I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it. Bridget, too, at times urged me to hasten the day. Why do we wait, she asked? Here I am recovered, and everything is ready. Why did we wait indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not help repeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn. But that was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formally tormented me, but an instinct persistent and fatal. What strange creatures we? It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire, and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at the water. They spoke of their life at N, and when Bridget, almost tearful, assumed a motherly air, to recall some instant of her childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in it. I asked questions. I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans and his prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favourable light, and forced his modesty to reveal his merit. You love your sister very much, do you not? I asked. When do you expect her to marry? He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy, but that it would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide her dowry. That there was a family in the country whose eldest son was her friend, that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune would one day come, like rest, without thinking of it, that he had set aside for his sister a part of the money left by their father, that their mother was hoping to it, but that he would insist on it, that a young man may live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. And thus, little by little, he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Bridges listening to him. Then when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there, pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs. Upon examining our trunks, we found that there were still a few things needed before we could start. Smith was asked to purchase them. He was remarkably active and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk. Bridget was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She was playing one of those old airs into which he put so much expression, and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall. Every note reached my ear indistinctly. Never had she sung so sadly, so divinely. Smith was listening with pleasure. He was on his knees, holding the buckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room at the other goods he had packed, and covered with linen cloth. Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot. Bridget, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the same time I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes. I was ready to shed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand to him. Were you there? asked Bridget. She trembled and seemed surprised. Yes, I was there, I replied. Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear your sweet voice. She continued her song without a word. She noticed my emotion, as well as Smith's, her voice faltered. With the last notes she arose and came to me and kissed me. On another occasion I had bought an album containing views of Switzerland. We were looking at them, all three of us. And when Bridget found a site that pleased her, she would stop to examine it. There was one view that seemed to please her more than all the others. It was a certain spot in the canton of Vaud, some distance between Bridget, some trees with cows gazing in the shade. In the distance a village consisting of some dozen houses scattered here and there. In the foreground a young girl with a large straw hat seated under a tree and a farmer's boy standing before her, apparently pointing out, with his iron-tipped stick, the route over which he had come. He was directing her attention to a winding path that led to the mountain. Above them were the Alps, and the picture was crowned by three snow-capped summits. Nothing could be more simple or more beautiful than this landscape. The valley resembled a lake of verger, and the eye followed its contour with delight. Shall we go there? asked Bridget. I took a pencil and traced some figures on the picture. What are you doing? she asked. I am trying to see if I can not change that face slightly and make it resemble yours. The pretty hat would become you, and can I not, if I am skillful, give that fine mountaineer some resemblance to me? The whim seemed to please her, and she set about rubbing out the two faces. When I had painted her portrait she wished to try mine. The faces were very small, hence not very difficult. It was agreed that the likeness were striking. While we were laughing at it, the door opened, and I was called away by the serpent. When I returned, Smith was leaning on the table and looking at the picture with interest. He was absorbed in a profound reverie, and was not aware of my presence. I sat down near the fire, and it was not until I spoke to Bridget that he raised his head. He looked at us a moment, then hastily took his leave and, as he approached the door, I saw him strike his forehead with his hand. When I discovered these signs of grief, I said to myself, what does it mean? Then I clasped my hands to plead, with whom? I do not know. Perhaps my good angel, perhaps my evil destiny. Chapter 4 Part 5 Book 3 of Confession of a Child of the Century. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musette, translated by Kendall Warren. Book 3 Part 5 Chapter 4 My heart yearned to set out, and yet I delayed. Some secret influence rooted me to the spot. When Smith came, I knew no repose from the time he entered the room. How is it that we frequently seem to enjoy unhappiness? One day a word, a flush, a glance, made me shudder. Another day, another glance, another word, threw me into uncertainty. Why are they both so sad? Why am I as motionless as a statue where I had formerly been violent? Every evening I sat on my bed and said to myself, Let me see, let me think that over. Then I sprang to my feet crying, impossible. The next day I did the same thing. In Smith's presence Bridget treated me with more tenderness than when we were alone. It happened one evening that some hard words escaped us. When she heard his voice in the hall, she came and sat on my knees. As for him, it seemed to me he was always making an effort to control himself. His gestures were carefully regulated. He spoke slowly and prudently, so that his occasional moments of forgetfulness seemed all the more striking. Was it curiosity that tormented me? I remember that one day I saw a man drowning near Point Royale. It was mid-summer, and we were rowing on the river. Some thirty boats were crowded together under the bridge, when suddenly one of the occupants of a boat near mine threw up his hands and fell overboard. We immediately began diving for him, but in vain. Some hours later the body was found under a raft. I shall never forget my experience as I was diving for that man. I opened my eyes under the water and searched painfully here and there in the dark corners about the pier. Then I returned to the surface for breath, then resumed my horrible search. I was filled with hope and terror, the thought that I might feel myself seized by convulsive arms, allured me, and at the same time thrilled me with horror. When I was exhausted with fatigue I climbed back into my boat. Unless a man is brutalized by debauchery, eager curiosity is one of his marked traits. I have already remarked that I felt it on the occasion of my first visit to Dejeuner. I will explain my meaning. The truth, that skeleton of appearances, ordains that every man, whatsoever he be, shall come in his day and hour to touch the bones that lie forever at the bottom of some chance experience. It is called knowing the world, and experience is purchased at that price. It happens that some recoil and terror before that test, others, feeble and affrighted, vacillate like shadows. Some, the best perhaps, die at once. The large number forget, and thus all float on to death. But there are some men who, at the fell stroke of misfortune, neither die nor forget. When it comes their turn to touch misfortune, otherwise called truth, they approach it with a firm step and outstretched hand, and, horrible to say, they mistake love for the livid corpse they have found at the bottom of the river. They seize it, feel it, clasp it in their arms. Behold them, drunk with the desire to know. They no longer look with interest upon things, except to see them pass. They do nothing except doubt and test. They ransack the world as though they were God's spies. They sharpen their thoughts into arrows, and they give birth to a monster. The debauchees, more than all others, are exposed to that fury, and the reason is very simple. Ordinary life is the limpid surface. The debauchees, the rapid current turning over and over, and at times touching the bottom. Coming from a ball, for instance, where they have danced with a modest girl, they seek the company of bad characters, and spend the night in riotous feasting. The last words they addressed to a beautiful and virtuous woman are still on their lips. They repeat them, and burst into laughter. Shall I say it? Do they not raise, for some pieces of silver, the vesture of chastity, that robe so full of mystery that seems to respect the being it embellishes and surrounds without touching? What idea can they have of the world? They are like comedians in the green room, who, more than they, is skilled in that research at the bottom of things, in that groping, profound and impious. See how they speak of everything, always in terms the most barren, the most crude and abject. Such words appear true to them. All the rest is only parade, convention, prejudice. Let them tell a story, let them recount some experience, they will always use the same dirty and material expression, always the letter, always death. They do not say, that woman loved me, they say, I have possessed that woman. They do not say, I love, they say, I desire. They never say, if God wills, they say, if I will. I do not know what they think of themselves and such monologues as these. Hence, of a necessity, either idleness or curiosity. For while they strive to find what there is of evil, they do not understand that others still believe in the good. Therefore, they are either so nonchalant that they stop their ears, or the noise of the rest of the world suddenly startles them from sleep. The Father allows his son to go where so many others go, where Cato himself went. He says that youth is but a stage. But when he returns, the youth looks upon his sister, and sees what has taken place in him during an hour passed in the society of brutal reality. He says to himself, my sister is not like that creature I have just left, and from that day he is disturbed and uneasy. Sinful curiosity is a vile melody borne of all impure contact. It is the prowling instinct of phantoms who raise the lids of tombs. It is the inexplicable torture with which God punishes those who have sinned. They wish to believe that all sin is they have done, and would be disappointed perhaps to find that it is not so. But they inquire, they search, they dispute. They hang their heads on one side, as does an architect who adjusts a pillar, and thus strive to find what they desire to know. Given proof of evil, they laugh at it. Doubtful of evil, they swear that it exists. The good they refuse to recognize. Who knows? Behold the grand formula, the first words that Satan spoke when he saw heaven closing against him. Alas, how many evils are those words responsible for? How many disasters and deaths? How many strokes of terrible size in the ripening harvest of humanity? How many hearts? How many families where there is not but ruin, since that word was first heard? Who knows? Who knows? Loathsome words. Rather than pronounce them, one should do as the sheep who graze about the slaughter-house and know it not. That is better than to be a strong spirit, and read La Rocha Facole. What better illustration could I present than the one I have just given? My mistress was ready to set out, and I had but to say the word. Why did I delay? What would have been the result if I had started it once on our trip? Nothing but a moment of apprehension that would have been forgotten after travelling three days. When with me she had no thought but of me. Why should I care to solve the mystery that did not threaten my happiness? She would have consented, and that would have been the end of it. A kiss on her lips and all would be well. Instead of that, see what I did. One evening, when Smith had dined with us, I retired in an early hour and left them together. As I closed my door, I heard Bridget order some tea. In the morning I happened to approach her table, and, sitting beside the teapot, I saw but one cup. No one had been in the room before me that morning, so the servant could not have carried away anything that had been used the night before. I searched everywhere for a second cup, but could find none. Did Smith stay late? I asked of Bridget. He left about midnight. Did you retire alone, or did you call someone to assist you? I retired alone. Everyone in the house was asleep. I continued my search, and my hands trembled. In what burlesque comedy is there a jealous lover so stupid as to inquire what has become of a cup? Why seek to discover whether Smith and Madame Pearson had drunk from the same cup? What a brilliant idea that! Nevertheless I found the cup, and I burst into laughter, and threw it on the floor with such violence that it broke into a thousand pieces. I ground the pieces under my feet. Bridget looked at me without saying a word. During the two succeeding days she treated me with a coldness that had something of contempt in it, and I saw that she treated Smith with more deference and kindness than usual. She called him Henry and smiled on him sweetly. I feel that the air would do me good, she said after dinner. Shall we go to the opera-octave? I would enjoy walking that far. No, I will stay here, go without me. She took Smith's arm and went out. I remained alone all the evening, I had paper before me, and I was trying to collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain. As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a letter from his mistress, and loses himself in delightful reverie, thus I shut myself up in solitude and yielded to the sweet allurement of doubt. Before me were the two empty seats which Bridget and Smith had just occupied. I scrutinized them eagerly, as though they could tell me something. I revolved in my mind all the things I had heard and seen. From time to time I went to the door and cast my eyes over our trunks, which had been piled against the wall for a month. I opened them and examined the contents so carefully packed away by those delicate little hands. I listened to the sound of passing carriages. The slightest noise made me tremble. I spread out on the table our map of Europe, and there in the very presence of all my hopes, in that room where I had conceived and so nearly realized them, I abandoned myself to the most frightful presentiments. But, strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but a terrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet I doubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees, and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of woe. In truth his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition, whose walls are covered with so many instruments of torture, that one is dazed and asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him are pinchers or play things. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in saying to my mistress, all women deceive, or you deceive me? What passed through my mind was perhaps as subtle as the finest sophistry. It was a sort of dialogue between the mind and the conscience. If I should lose Bridget, I said to the mind. She departs with you, said the conscience. If she deceives me, how can she deceive you? Has she not made out her will asking for prayers for you? If Smith loves her? Fool, what does it matter so long as you know that she loves you? If she loves me, why is she sad? That is her secret, respect it. If I take her away with me, will she be happy? Love her, and she will be. Why, when that man looks at her, does she seem to fear to meet his glance? Because she is a woman, and he is young. Why does that young man turn pale when she looks at him? Because he is a man, and she is beautiful. Why, when I went to see him, did he throw himself into my arms, and why did he weep and beat his head with his hands? Do not seek to know of what you must remain ignorant. Why can I not know these things? Because you are miserable and weak, and all mystery is of God. But why is it that I suffer? Why is it that my soul recoils in terror? Think of your father, and do good. But why am I unable to do as he did? Why does evil attract me to itself? Get down on your knees and confess. If you believe in evil, it is because your ways have been evil. If my ways were evil, was it my fault? Why did the good betray me? Because you are in the shadow, would you deny the existence of light? If there are traitors, why are you one of them? Because I am afraid of becoming the dupe. Why do you spend your nights in watching? Why are you alone now? Because I think, I doubt, and I fear. When will you offer your prayer? When I believe, why have they lied to me? Why do you lie, coward, at this very moment? Why not die if you cannot suffer? Thus spoken groaned within me two voices, voices that were defiant and terrible, and then a third voice cried out. Alas! Alas! my innocence! Alas! Alas! the days that were!