 Chapter 5, Part 5, Book 3 of Confession of a Child of the Century. Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée, translated by Kendall Warren. Book 3, Part 5, Chapter 5. What a powerful lever is the human thought! It is our defense and our safeguard, the most beautiful present that God has made us. It is ours, and it obeys us. We may shoot it forth into space, and, once outside of this feeble head, it is gone. We can no longer control it. While I was deferring the time of our departure from day to day, I was gradually losing strength, and although I did not perceive it, my vital forces were slowly wasting away. When I sat at table, I experienced a violent distaste for food. At night two pale faces that of Brigitte and of Smith pursued me through frightful dreams. When they went to the theatre in the evening, I refused to go with them. Then as I went alone and concealed myself in the parquet and watched them, I pretended that I had some business to attend to in a neighbouring room, and I sat there an hour and listened to them. The idea occurred to me to seek a quarrel with Smith and force him to fight with me. I turned my back on him while he was talking, then he came to me with a look of surprise on his face, holding out his hand. When I was alone in the night and everyone slept, I felt a strong desire to go to Brigitte's desk and take from it her papers. On one occasion I was obliged to go out of the house in order to resist the temptation. One day I felt like arming myself with a knife and threatening to kill them if they did not tell me why they were so sad. Another day I turned all this fury against myself. Oh, with what shame do I write it! And if anyone should ask me why I acted thus, I could not reply. To see, to doubt, to search, to torture myself and make myself miserable, to pass entire days with my ear to the keyhole and the night in a flood of tears, to repeat over and over that I would die of sorrow, to feel isolation and feebleness, uprooting hope in my heart, to imagine that I was spying when I was only listening to the feverish beating of my own pulse, to con over stupid phrases such as, Life is a dream, there is nothing stable here below, to curse and blaspheme God through misery and through caprice. That was my joy, the precious occupation for which I renounced love, the air of heaven and liberty, eternal God, liberty. Yes, there were certain moments when in spite of all I still thought of it. In the midst of my madness, at centricity and stupidity, there were within me certain impulses that at times brought me to myself. It was a breath of air which struck my face as I came from my dungeon. It was a page of a book I read when, in my bitter days, I happened to read something beside those modern sycophants called pamphleteers, and who, out of regard for the public health, ought to be prevented from indulging in their crude philosophizing. Since I have referred to these good moments, let me mention one of them, they were so rare. One evening I was reading the memoirs of Constant, I came to the following lines. Salsdorf, a Saxon surgeon attached to Prince Christian, had his leg broken by a shell in the battle of Bagram. He lay almost lifeless on the dusty field. Fifteen paces distant, Amadi of Kerberg, Ed de Camp, I have forgotten of whom, wounded in the breast by a bullet, falls to the ground vomiting blood. Salsdorf sees that if that young man is not cared for he will die of apoplexine. Summoning all his powers, he painfully drags himself to the side of the wounded man, bleeds him, and saves his life. Salsdorf himself died four days later from the effects of amputation. When I read these words I threw down my book and melted into tears. I do not regret those tears, for they were such as I could shed only when my heart was right. I do not speak merely of Salsdorf, and do not care for that particular instance. I am sure, however, that I did not suspect anyone that day. Poor dreamer, ought I to remember that I have been other than I am. What good will it do me as I stretch out my arms and anguish to heaven and wait for the shell that will deliver me for ever? Malas, that was only a gleam that flashed across the night of my life. Like those dervish fanatics who find ecstasy and vertigo when thought, turning on itself, exhausted by the stress of introspection, tired of vain effort, recoils in fright. Thus it would seem that man must be a void and that by dint of delving within himself he reaches the last turn of a spiral. There is on the summits of mountains and at the bottom of mines air fails and God forbids man to go farther. Then struck with a mortal chill the heart, as though impaired by oblivion, seeks to escape into a new birth. It demands life of that which environs it. It eagerly drinks in the air, but it finds round about only its own chimeras which have just animated its failing powers and which self-created surround it like pitiless spectres. This cannot last long. Tired of uncertainty, I resolved to resort to a test that would discover the truth. I ordered post-horses for ten in the evening. We had hired a collage, and I gave direction that all should be ready at the hour indicated. At the same time I asked that nothing be said to Madam Pearson. Smith came to dinner. At the table I affected unusual cheerfulness, and without a word about my plans I turned the conversation to our journey. I would renounce all idea of going away, I said, if I thought Brigitte did not care to go. I was so well satisfied with Paris that I asked nothing better than to remain as long as she pleased. I made much of all the pleasures of the city. I spoke of the balls, the theatres, of the many opportunities for diversion on every hand. In short, since we were happy, I did not see why we should make a change, and I did not think of going away at present. I was expecting her to insist that we carry out our plan of going to Geneva and was not disappointed. However, she insisted but feebly. But after a few words I pretended to yield, and then change in the subject I spoke of other things as though it was all settled. And why will not Smith go with us? I asked. It is very true that he has duties here, but can he not obtain leave of absence? Moreover, will not the talents he possesses and which he is unwilling to use assure him an honourable living anywhere? Let him come along with us. The carriage is large, and we offer him a place in it. A young man should see the world, and there is nothing so irksome for a man of his age as confinement in an office and restriction to a narrow circle. Is it not true? I asked, turning to Brigitte. Come, my dear, let your credit obtain from him what he might refuse me. Urge him to give us six weeks of his time. We will travel together, and after a tour of Switzerland he will return to his duties with new life. Brigitte joined her entreaties to mine, although she knew it was only a joke on my part. Smith could not leave Paris without danger of losing his position, and replied that he regretted being obliged to deny himself the pleasure of accompanying us. Nevertheless I continued to press him, and ordering another bottle of wine, I repeated my invitation. After dinner I went out to assure myself that my orders were carried out. Then I returned in high spirits, and seating myself at the piano I proposed some music. Let us pass the evening here, I said. Believe me, it is better than going to the theatre. I cannot take part in myself, but I can listen. We will make Smith play. If he tires of our company, and a time will pass pleasantly. Brigitte consented with good grace and began playing for us. Smith accompanied her on the violin cello, the materials for a ball of punch were brought, and the flame of burning rum soon cheered us with its light. The piano was abandoned for the table. Then we had cards, everything passed off as I wished, and we succeeded in diverting ourselves to my heart's content. I had my eyes fixed on the clock, and waited impatiently for the hands to mark the hour of ten. I was tormented with anxiety, but allowed them to see nothing. Finally the hour arrived. I heard the Posterlian's whip as the horses entered the court. Brigitte was seated near me. I took her by the hand and asked her if she was ready to depart. She looked at me with surprise, doubtless wondering if I was not joking. I told her that, at dinner, she had appeared so anxious to go that I had felt justified in sending for the horses, and that I went out for that purpose when I left the table. Are you serious, Asprey? Do you wish to set out to-night? Why not, I replied, since we have agreed that we ought to leave Paris. What, now, at this very moment? Certainly, have we not been ready for a month? You see, there is nothing to do but load our trunks on the collage. As we have decided to go, ought we not to go at once? I believe it is better to go now and put off nothing until tomorrow. You are in the humour to travel to-night, and I hasten to profit by it. Why wait longer and continue to put it off? I cannot endure this life. You wish to go, do you not? Very well. Let us go and be done with it. And silence ensued. Brigitte stepped to the window and satisfied herself that the collage was there. Moreover, the tone in which I spoke would admit of no doubt. And however hasty my action may have appeared to her, it was due to her own expressed desire. She could not deny her own words, nor find any pretext for further delay. Her decision was made promptly. She asked a few questions as though to assure herself that all the preparations had been made, seeing that nothing had been omitted. She began to search here and there. She found her hat and shawl, then continued her search. I am ready, she said. Shall we go? We are really going. She took a light, went to my room, to her own, opened lockers and closets. She asked for the key to her secretary, which she said she had lost. Oh, where could that key be? She had it in her possession not an hour ago. Come, come, I am ready, she repeated in extreme agitation. Let us go. Uktav, let us set out at once. While speaking she continued her search and then came and sat down near us. I was seated on the sofa, watching Smith, who stood before me. He had not changed countenance and seemed neither troubled nor surprised. But two drops of sweat trickled down his forehead, and I heard an ivory counter crackle between his fingers, the pieces falling to the floor. He held out both hands to us. Bon voyage, my friends, he said. Again silence. I was still watching him, waiting for him to add a word. If there is some secret here, thought I, when shall I learn it, if not now? It must be on the lips of both of them. Let it but come out into the light, and I will seize it. My dear Uktav said, Brigitte, where are we to stop? You will write to us, Henry, will you not? You will not forget my relatives, and will do what you can for me? He replied in a voice that trembled slightly, that he would do all in his power to serve her. I can answer for nothing, he said, and judging from the letters you have received there is not much hope. But it will not be my fault if I do not soon send you good news. Count on me. I am devoted to you. After a few more kind words he made ready to take his departure. I arose and left the room before him. I wished to leave them together a moment for the last time, and as soon as I had closed the door behind me in a perfect rage of jealousy, I pressed my ear to the keyhole. When shall I see you again? he asked. Never, replied Brigitte. Adieu, Henry. She held out her hand. He bent over it, pressed it to his lips, and I had barely time to slip into a corner as he passed out without seeing me. Alone with Brigitte my heart sank within me. She was waiting for me, her shawl on her arm and emotion plainly marked on her face. She had found the key she had been looking for, and her desk was open. I returned and sat down near the fire. Listen to me, I said without daring to look at her. I have been so culpable in my treatment of you that I ought to wait and suffer without a word of complaint. The change which has taken place in you has thrown me into such despair that I have not been able to refrain from asking you the cause. But today I ask nothing more. Does it cost you an effort to depart? Tell me. So I am resigned. Let us go, let us go, she replied. As you please, but be frank. Whatever blow I may receive, I ought not to ask whence it comes. I should submit without a murmur, but if I lose you, do not speak to me of hope, for God knows I will not survive the loss. She turned on me like a flash. Speak to me of your love, she said, not of your grief. Say well, I love you more than life. Beside my love, my grief is but a dream. Come with me to the end of the world. I will die, or I will live with you. With these words I advanced toward her. She turned pale and recoiled. She made a vain effort to force a smile on her contracted lips and sitting down before her death, she said. One moment I have some papers here I want to burn. She showed me the letters from N. Cartham up and threw them into the fire. She then took out other papers which she re-read and then spread out on the table. They were bills of purchases she had made and some of them were still unpaid. While examining them she began to talk rapidly while her cheeks burned as though with fever. Then she asked my pardon for her obstinate silence and her conduct since our arrival. She gave evidence of more tenderness, more confidence than ever. She clapped her hands gleefully at the prospect of a happy journey. In short she was all love, or at least apparently all love. I cannot tell how I suffered at the sight of that tactitious joy. There was in that grief which crazed her something more sad than tears and more bitter than reproaches. I would have preferred to have her cold and indifferent rather than thus excited. It seemed to me a parody of our happiest moments. There were the same words, the same woman, the same caresses, and that which fifteen days before would have intoxicated me with love and happiness, repeated thus, filled me with horror. Brigitte, I suddenly inquired, what secret are you concealing from me? If you love me what horrible comedy is this you are playing before me? I said she almost offended. What makes you think I am playing? What makes me think so? Tell me, my dear, that you have death in your soul and that you are suffering martyrdom? Behold, my arms are ready to receive you, lean your head on me and weep? Then I will take you away, perhaps, but in truth, not thus. Let us go, let us go, she again repeated. No on my soul. No not at present. No. While there is between us a lie or a mask, I like unhappiness better than such cheerfulness as yours. She was silent, astonished to see that I had not been deceived by her words and manner and that I saw through them both. Why should we delude ourselves, I continued? Have I fallen so low in your esteem that you can dissimulate before me? That unfortunate journey you think you are condemned to it, do you? Am I a tyrant, an absolute master? Am I an executioner who drags you to punishment? How much do you fear my wrath when you come before me with such mimicry? What terror impels you to lie thus? You are wrong, she replied. I beg of you not a word more. Why so little sincerity, if I am not your confidant, may I not at least be your friend? If I am denied all knowledge of the source of your tears, may I not at least see them flow? Have you not enough confidence in me to believe that I will respect your sorrow? What have I done that I should be ignorant of it? Might not the remedy lay right there? No, she replied. You are wrong. You will achieve your own unhappiness as well as mine if you press me farther. Is it not enough that we are going away? Do you expect me to drag you away against your will? Is it not evident that you have consented reluctantly and that you are already beginning to repent? Great God, what is it you are concealing from me? What is the use playing with words when your thoughts are as clear as that glass before which you stand? Would I not be the meanest of men to accept at your hands what is yielded with so much regret? And yet how can I refuse it? What can I do if you refuse to speak? No, I do not oppose you. You are mistaken. I love you, Octav. Cease tormenting me thus. She threw so much tenderness into these words that I fell down on my knees before her. Who could resist her glance and her voice? My God, I cried! You love me, Brigitte? My dear mistress, you love me? Yes, I love you. Yes, I belong to you. Do with me what you will. I will follow you. Let us go away together. Come, Octav, the carriage is waiting. She pressed my hand in hers and kissed my forehead. Yes, it must be, she murmured. It must be. It must be, I repeated to myself. I arose. On the table there remained only one piece of paper that Brigitte was examining. I picked it up, then allowed it to drop to the floor. Is that all, I asked? Yes, that is all. When I ordered the horses I had no idea that we could really go. I wished merely to make a trial, but circumstances bid fair to force me to carry my plans further than I at first intended. I opened the door. It must be, I said to myself. It must be, I repeated aloud. What do you mean by that, Brigitte? What is there in those words that I do not understand? Explain yourself, or I'll not go. Why must you love me? She fell on the sofa and wrung her hands in grief. Ah, unhappy man, she cried, you will never know how to love. Yes, I think you are right, but before God I know how to suffer. You must love me, must you not? Very well, then you must answer me. Were I to lose you forever? Were these walls to crumble over my head? I will not leave this spot until I have solved the mystery that has been torturing me for more than a month. Speak, or I will leave you. I may be a fool who destroys his own happiness. I may be demanding something that is not for me to possess. It may be that an explanation will separate us and raise before me an insurmountable barrier, that it will render our tour on which I have set my heart impossible. Whatever it may cost you and me, you shall speak, or I will renounce everything. No, I will not speak. Oh, you will speak! Do you fondly imagine I am the dupe of your lies when I see you change between morning and evening until you differ more from your natural self than does night from day? Do you think I am deceived? When you give me as a cause some letters that are not worth the trouble of reading, do you imagine that I have to be put off with the first pretext that comes to hand because you do not choose to seek another? Is your face made of plaster that it is difficult to see what is passing in your heart? What is your opinion of me? I do not deceive myself as much as you suppose, and take care, lest in default of words, your silence discloses what you so obstinately conceal. What do you imagine I am concealing? What do I imagine? You ask me that? Is it to brave me you ask such a question? Do you think to make me desperate and thus get rid of me? Yes, I admit it, offended pride is capable of driving me to extremes. If I should explain myself freely, you would have at your service all feminine hypocrisy. You hope that I will accuse you so that you can reply that such a woman as you does not stoop to justify herself. How skillfully the most guilty and treacherous of your sex contrived to use proud disdain as a shield! Your great weapon is silence. I did not learn that yesterday. You wish to be insulted, and you hold your tongue until it comes to that. Come, come, struggle against my heart. Where yours beats, you will find it. But do not struggle against my head. It is harder than iron, and it has served me as long as yours. Poor boy, murmured Brigitte, you do not want to go. No, I shall not go except with my mistress, and you are not that now. I have struggled, I have suffered, I have eaten my own heart long enough. It is time for day to break. I have loved long enough in the night. Yes or no? Will you answer me? No. As you please, I will wait. I sat down on the other side of the room, determined not to rise until I had learned what I wished to know. She appeared to be reflecting and walked back and forth before me. I followed her with an eager eye, while her silence gradually increased my anger. I was unwilling to have her perceive it and was undecided what to do. I opened the window. You may drive off, I called to those below, and I will see that you are paid. I shall not start tonight. Poor boy, repeated Brigitte, I quietly closed the window and sat down as though I had not heard her, but I was so furious with rage that I could hardly restrain myself. That cold silence, that negative force, exasperated me to the last point. Had I been really deceived and convinced of the guilt of the woman I loved, I could not have suffered more. As I had condemned myself to remain in Paris, I reflected that I must compel Brigitte to speak at any price. In vain I tried to think of some means of forcing her to enlighten me. For such power I would have given all I possessed. What could I do or say? She sat there calm and unruffled, looking at me with sadness. I heard the sound of the horses' hooves on the pavement as the carriage drew out of the court. I had merely to turn my hand to call them back, but it seemed to me that there was something irrevocable about their departure. I slipped the bolt on the door, something whispered in my ear. You are face to face with a woman who must give you life or death. While thus buried in thought, I tried to invent some expedient that would lead to the truth. I recalled one of Diderot's romances in which a woman, jealous of her lover, resorted to a novel plan for the purpose of clearing away her doubts. She told him that she no longer loved him and that she wished to leave him. The Marquis de Aris, the name of the lover, falls into the trap, and confesses that he himself has tired of the liaison. That piece of strategy which I had read at too early an age had struck me as being very skillful, and the recollection of it at this moment made me smile. "'Who knows?' said I to myself. If I should try this with Brigitte, she might be deceived and tell me her secret.' My anger had become furious when the idea of resorting to such trickery occurred to me. Was it so difficult to make a woman speak in spite of herself? This woman was my mistress. I must be very weak if I could not gain my point.' I turned over on the sofa with an air of indifference. "'Very well, my dear,' said I, gaily, this is not a time for confidence then. She looked at me in astonishment. And yet, I continued, we must some day come to the truth. Now I believe it would be well to begin at once. That will make you confiding, and there is nothing like an understanding between friends.' Doubtless my face betrayed me as I spoke these words. Brigitte did not appear to understand and kept on walking up and down. "'Do you know, I resumed, that we have been together now six months? The life we are leading together is not one to be laughed at. You are young, I also. If this kind of life should become distasteful to you, are you the woman to tell me of it? In truth, if it were so, I would confess it to you frankly. And why not? Is it a crime to love? If not, it is not a crime to love less or to cease to love at all. Would it be astonishing if at our age we should feel the need of a change?' She stopped me. "'At our age,' said she, "'are you addressing me? What comedy are you now playing yourself?' Blood mounted to my face, I seized her hand. "'Sit down here,' I said, and listen to me. "'What is the use? It is not you who speak?' I felt ashamed of my own strategy and abandoned it. "'Listen to me,' I repeated, and come, I beg of you, sit down near me. If you wish to remain silent yourself, at least hear what I have to say.' And I am listening. What have you to say to me?' "'If someone should say to me, you are a coward. I, who am twenty-two years of age and have fought on the field of honour, would throw the taunt back in the teeth of my accuser. Have I not within me the consciousness of what I am? It would be necessary for me to meet my accuser on the field and play my life against his. Why? In order to prove that I am not a coward. Otherwise the world would believe it. That single word demands that reply every time it is spoken, and it matters not by whom. It is true. What is your meaning?' Women do not fight, but as society is constituted there is no being of whatever sex who ought to submit to the indignity involved in an aspersion on all his or her past life. Be that life regulated as by a pendulum. Reflect. Who escapes that law? There are some, I admit, but what happens? If it is a man, dishonour. If it is a woman, what? Forgiveness. Everyone who lives ought to give some evidence of life, some proof of existence. There is, then, for woman as well as for man, a time when an attack must be resented. If she is brave, she rises, announces that she is present and sits down again. A stroke of the sword is not for her. She must not only avenge herself, but she must make her own weapons. Someone suspects her who? An outsider? She may hold him in contempt, her lover whom she loves. If so, it is her life that is in question, and she may not despise him. Her only recourse is silence. You are wrong, the lover who suspects her casts an aspersion on her entire life. I know it, her plea is her tears, her past life, her devotion and her patience. What will happen if she remains silent? Her lover will lose her by her own act, and time will justify her. Is not that your thought? Perhaps silence before all. Perhaps you say, assuredly I will lose you if you do not speak? My resolution is made. I am going away alone. But Akhtav, but I cried, time will justify you. Let us put an end to it, yes or no? Yes, I hope so. You hope so? Will you answer me, definitely? This is doubtless the last time you will have the opportunity. You tell me that you love me, and I believe it. I suspect you. Is it your intention to allow me to go away and rely on time to justify you? Of what do you suspect me? I do not choose to say, for I see that it would be useless. But after all, misery for misery at your leisure, I am as well pleased. You deceive me, you love another. That is your secret and mine. Who is it? She asked. Smith. She placed her hand on her lips and turned aside. I could say no more. We were both pensive, our eyes fixed on the floor. Listen to me, she began with an effort. I have suffered much. I call to heaven to bear me witness that I would give my life for you. The long as the faintest gleam of hope remains, I am ready to suffer anything. But although I may rouse your anger in saying to you that I am a woman, I am nevertheless a woman, my friend. We cannot go beyond the limits of human endurance. Beyond a certain point I will not answer for the consequences. All I can do at this moment is to get down on my knees before you and beseech you not to go away. She knelt down as she spoke. I arose. A fool that I am, I muttered bitterly, fool to try to get the truth from a woman. He who undertakes such a task will earn not but the reason and will deserve it. Truth! Only he who sorts with chamber-maids knows it. Only he who steals to their pillow and listens to the unconscious utterance of a dream hears it. He alone knows it, who makes a woman of himself and initiates himself into the secrets of her cult of inconstancy. But the man who asks for it openly, he who opens a loyal hand to receive that frightful alms, he will never obtain it. They are on guard with him for reply he receives a shrug of the shoulders. And if he rouses himself in his impatience they rise in righteous indignation like an outraged vessel. While there falls from their lips the great feminine oracle that suspicion destroys love, and they refuse to pardon an accusation which they are unable to meet. Ah, just God, how wary I am! When will all this cease? Whenever you please, said she coldly, I am as tired of it as you. At this very moment I leave you for ever and may time justify you. Time! Time! Oh, what a cold lover! Remember this, Adieu, time and thy beauty and thy love and thy happiness. Where will they be? Is it thus without regret you allow me to go? Ah, the day when the jealous lover will know that he has been unjust, the day when he shall see proofs he will understand what a heart he has wounded. Is it not so? He will bewail his shame. He will know neither joy nor sleep. He will live only in the memory of the time when he might have been happy. But on that day his proud mistress will turn pale as she sees herself avenged. She will say to herself, if I had only done it sooner, and believe me if she loves him, pride will not console her. I tried to be calm, but I was no longer master of myself, and I began to pace the floor as she had done. There are certain glances that resemble the clashing of drawn swords. Such glances, Brigitte and I exchanged at that moment. I looked at her as the prisoner looks at the door of his dungeon. In order to break the seal on her lips and force her to speak, I would give my life and hers. What do you mean? She asked. What do you wish me to tell you? What do you have in your heart? Are you cruel enough to make me repeat it? And you, you, she cried, are you not a hundred times more cruel? Ah, fool, as you say, who would know the truth. Fool that I would be if I expected you to believe it. You would know my secret, and my secret is that I love you. Fool that I am, you will seek another. That pallor of which you are the cause, you accuse it, you question it. Be a fool, I have tried to suffer in silence to consecrate to you my resignation. I have tried to conceal my tears. You have played the spy, and you have counted them as witnesses against me. Fool that I am, I have thought of crossing seas, of exiling myself from France with you, of dying far from all who have loved me, leaning for sole support on a heart that doubts me. Fool that I am. I thought that truth had a glance, an accent that could not be mistaken, that would be respected. Ah, when I think of it, tears choke me. Why, if it must be there for thus, induce me to take a step that will forever destroy my peace. My head is confused. I do not know where I am. She leaned on me weeping. Fool, fool, she repeated in a heart-rending voice. And what is it you ask, she continued, what can I do to meet those suspicions that are ever born anew, that alter with your moods? I must justify myself, you say, for what? For loving, for dying, for despairing. And if I assume a forced cheerfulness, even that cheerfulness offends you. I sacrifice everything to follow you, and you have not gone a league before you look back. I sacrifice everywhere, whatever I may do, insults and angers. Ah, dear child, if you knew what a mortal chill comes over me, what suffering I endure in seeing my simplest words thus taken up and hurled back at me with suspicion and sarcasm. By that course you deprive yourself of the only happiness there is in the world, perfect love. You kill all delicate and lofty sentiment in the hearts of those who love you. Soon you will believe in nothing except the material and the gross of love. There will remain for you only that which is visible and can be touched with the finger. You are young, Okta, and you have still a long life before you. You will have other mistresses. Yes, as you say, pride is a little thing, and it is not to it I look for consolation. But God wills that one of your tears shall one day pay me for those which I now shed for you. She arose. Must it be said, must you know that for six months I have not sought repose without repeating to myself that it was all in vain, that you would never be cured, that I have never risen in the morning without saying that another effort must be made, that after every word you have spoken I have felt that I ought to leave you, and that you have not given me a caress that I would rather die than endure. That day by day, minute by minute, hesitating between hope and fear, I have vainly tried to conquer either my love or my grief, that when I opened my heart to you, you pierced it with a mocking glance, and that when I closed it, it seemed to me I felt within it a treasure that none but you could dispense. Shall I speak of all the frailty and all the mysteries which seem purile to those who do not respect them? Shall I tell you that when you left me in anger, I shut myself up to read your first letters, that there is a favorite waltz that I never played in vain when I felt too keenly the suffering caused by your presence? Ah, wretch that I am! How dearly all these unnumbered tears, all these follies so sweet to the feeble, are purchased! Weep now! Not even this punishment, this sorrow, will avail you. I tried to interrupt her. Allow me to continue, she said. The time has come when I must speak. Let us see why do you doubt me? For six months in thought, in body, and in soul, I have belonged to no one but you. Of what do you dare suspect me? You wish to set out for Switzerland? I am ready, as you see. Do you think you have a rival? Send him a letter that I will sign and you will direct. What are we doing? Where are we going? Let us decide. Are we not always together? Very well. Then why would you leave me? I cannot be near you and separated from you at the same moment. It is necessary to have confidence in those we love. Love is either good or bad. If it is good, we must believe in it. If evil, we must cure ourselves of it. All this, you see, is a game we are playing. But our hearts and our lives are the stakes and it is horrible. Do you wish to die? That would perhaps be better. Who am I that you should doubt me? She stopped before the glass. Who am I? She repeated. Who am I? Think of it. Look at this face of mine. Doubt thee, she cried, addressing her own image. Poor, pale face, thou art suspected. Poor, thin cheeks, poor, tired eyes, thou and thy tears are in disgrace. Very well, put an end to thy suffering. Let those kisses that have wasted thee close thy lids. Descend into the cold earth, poor, trembling body that can no longer support its own weight. When thou art there, perchance, thou wilt be believed. If doubt believes in death, oh, sorrowful specter, on the banks of what stream wilt thou wander and groan, what fires devour thee? Thou dreamest of a long journey, and thou hast one foot in the grave. Die! God is thy witness that thou hast tried to love. What wealth of love has been awakened in thy heart. What dreams thou hast had, what poisons thou hast drunk. What evil hast thou committed, that there should be placed in thy breast a fever that consumes. What fury animates that blind creature who pushes thee into the grave with his foot, while his lips speak of thee of love. What will become of thee if thou livest? Is it not time? Is it not enough? What proof canst thou give that will satisfy when thou poor living proof art not believed? To what torture canst thou submit that thou hast not already endured? By what torments, what sacrifices will thou appease in satiable love? Thou wilt be only an object of ridicule, a thing to excite laughter. Thou wilt vainly seek a deserted street to avoid the finger of scorn. Thou wilt lose all shame, and even that appearance of virtue which has been so dear to thee. And the man for whom thou hast disgraced thyself will be the first to punish thee. He will reproach thee for living for him alone, for braving the world for him, and while thy own friends are whispering about thee, he will listen to assure himself that no word of pity is spoken. He will accuse thee of deceiving him, if another hand even then presses thine, and if in the desert of thy life thou findest someone who can spare the a word of pity in passing. O God! thus thou remember a day when a wreath of roses was placed on my head. Was it this brow on which that crown rested? Ah! the hand that hung it on the wall of the oratory has now fallen, like it to dust. O my valley, O my old aunt, who now sleeps in peace, O my lindens, my little white goat, my dear peasants who love me so much! You remember when I was happy, proud and respected? Who threw in my path that stranger who took me away from all this? Who gave him the right to enter my life? Ah! wretch! why didst thou turn the first day he followed you? Why didst thou receive him as a brother? Why didst thou open thy door, and why didst thou hold out thy hand? Oktav! oktav! why have you loved me if all is to end thus? She was about to faint as I led her to a chair where she sank down, and her head fell on my shoulder. The terrible effort she had made in speaking to me so bitterly had broken her down. Instead of an outraged woman, I found now only a suffering child. Her eyes closed, and she was motionless. When she regained consciousness she complained of extreme languor, and begged to be left alone that she might rest. She could hardly walk. I carried her gently to her room and placed her on the bed. There was no mark of suffering on her face. She was resting from her sorrow as from great fatigue, and seemed not even to remember it. Her feeble and delicate body yielded without a struggle. The strain had been too great. She held my hand in hers. I kissed her. Our lips met in loving union, and after the cruel scene through which she had passed, she slept smiling on my heart as on the first day. CHAPTER VI. PART V. BOOK III. OF CONFESSION OF A CHILD OF THE SENTRY. This is the LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Being by John Crowdy. Confession of a child of the century by Alfred de Musée. Translated by Kendall Warren. Book III. PART V. CHAPTER VI. Brigitte slept. Silent motionless I sat near her. As a farmer when a storm has passed counts the sheaves that remain in his devastated field. Thus I began to estimate the evil I had done. The more I thought of it the more irreparable I felt it to be. Certain sorrows by their very excess, wharners of their limits and the more shame and remorse I experienced the more I felt that after such a scene nothing remained for us to do but say adieu. Whatever courage Brigitte had shown she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad love. Unless I wished to see her die I must give her repose. She had often addressed cruel reproaches to me and had perhaps on certain other occasions shown more anger than in this scene. But what she had said this time was not dictated by offended pride. It was the truth which, hidden closely in her heart, had broken it in escaping. Our present relations and the fact that I had refused to go away with her, destroyed all hope. She desired to pardon me but she had not the power. This slumber even, this deathlike sleep of one who could suffer no more, was conclusive evidence, this sudden silence, the tenderness she had shown in the final moments, that pale face and that kiss confirmed me in the belief that all was over and that I had broken forever whatever bond had united us. As surely as she slept now as soon as I gave her cause for further suffering she would sleep in eternal rest. The clock struck and I felt that the last hour had carried away my life with hers. I'm willing to call anyone I lighted Brigitte's lamp. I watched its feeble flame and my thoughts seemed to flicker in the darkness like its uncertain rays. Whatever I had said or done, the idea of losing Brigitte had never occurred to me up to this time. A hundred times I wished to leave her but who has loved and is ready to say just what is in his heart? That was in times of despair or of anger. So long as I knew that she loved me I was sure of loving her. Stern necessity had just arisen between us for the first time. I experienced a dull anger and could distinguish nothing clearly. What my mind understood my soul recoiled from accepting. One I said to myself, I have desired it and I have done it. There is not the slightest hope that we can live together. I am unwilling to kill this woman so I have no alternative but to leave her. It is all over, I shall go away tomorrow. And all a while I was thinking neither of my responsibility nor of the past nor future. I thought neither of Smith nor his connection with the affair. I could not say who had led me there or what I had done during the last hour. I looked at the walls of the room and thought that all I had to do was wait until tomorrow and decide what carriage I would take. I remained for a long time in this strange calm. Just as the man who receives a thrust from a poignard feels at first only the cold steel. When he has gone some distance on his way he becomes weak. His eyes start from their sockets and he asks what has happened. But drop by drop the blood flows. The ground under his feet becomes red. Death comes. The man at his approach shudders with horror and falls as though struck by a thunderbolt. Thus apparently calm I awaited the coming of misfortune. I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said and I placed near her all that I suppose she would need for the night. I looked at her and then went to the window and pressed my forehead against the pane peering out of the somber and lowering sky. Then I returned to the bedside. That I was going away tomorrow was the only thought in my mind and little by little the word depart became intelligible to me. Oh God I suddenly cried my poor mistress I am going to lose you and I have not known how to love you. I trembled at these words as though it had been another who had pronounced them. They resounded through all my being as resounds the string of the harp that has been plucked to the point of breaking. In an instant two years of suffering traversed my heart and after them as their consequence and as their last expression the present seized me. How shall I describe such woe by a single word perhaps for those who have loved. I had taken Brigitte's hand and in a dream doubtless she had pronounced my name. I arose and went to my room a torrent of tears flowed from my eyes. I held out my arms as though to seize the past which was escaping me. Is it possible I repeated that I am going to lose you. I can love no one but you. What you are going away and forever. What you my life my adored mistress you flee from me. I shall never see you again. Never, never I said aloud and addressing myself to the sleeping Brigitte as though she could hear me I added. Never, never do not think it. I will never consent to it and why so much pride. Are there no means of atoning for the offence I have committed? I beg of you let us seek some expiation. Have you not pardoned me a thousand times but you love me you will not be able to go for courage will fail you. What shall we do? A horrible madness seized me. I began to run here and there in search of some instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat my head against the bed. Brigitte stirred and I remained quiet fearing I would awaken her. Let her sleep until tomorrow I said to myself you have all night to watch her. I resumed my place. I was so frightened at the idea of waking Brigitte that I scarcely dared breathe. Gradually I became more calm and less bitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeeded fury. I leaned over Brigitte and looked at her as though for the last time my good angel was urging me to grave on my soul the lines of that dear face. How pale she was her large eyes surrounded by a bluish circle were moist with tears her form once so live was bent as though under a burden. Her cheek wasted and ledden rested on a hand that was spare and feeble her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns which is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage how young she was six months ago how cheerful how free how careless what had I done with all that it seemed to me that a strange voice repeated an old romance that I had long since forgotten. Ultravolta guieri biele blanche rossa com un flore ma ora no non son più biele consumatis da l'amor. My sorrow was too great I sprang to my feet and once more began to walk the floor. Yes I continued look at her think of those who are consumed by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils you endure others have suffered and nothing is singular or peculiar to you. Think of those who have no mother no relatives no friends of those who seek and do not find of those who love in vain of those who die enough forgotten. Before thee there on that bed lies a being that nature perchance formed for thee. From the highest circles of intelligence to deepest and most impenetrable mysteries of matter and of form that soul and that body are thy brothers for six months thy mouth has not spoken thy heart has not throbbed without a responsive word and heartbeat from her. And that woman whom God has sent thee as he sends the rose to the field is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in each other's presence and the angels of eternal love were singing before you you were farther apart than two exiles at either end of the earth. Look at her but be silent thou hast still one night to see her if thy sobs do not awaken her. Little by little my thoughts mounted and became more somber until I recoiled in terror. To do evil such was the role imposed upon me by providence. I to do evil I to whom my conscience even in the midst of my wildest follies said that I was good. I whom a pitiless destiny was dragged swiftly towards the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of the awful fate to come. I who if I had shed blood with these hands could yet repeat that my heart was not guilty, that I was deceived, that it was not I who did it but my destiny, my evil genius, some unknown being who dwelt within me but who was not born there. I do evil. For six months I had been engaged in that task, not a day had passed that I had not worked at that impious occupation, and I had at that moment the proof before my eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who had offended her, then insulted her, then abandoned her, only to take her back again trembling with fear, beset with suspicion, finally thrown on that bed of sorrow where she now lay extended, was I. I beat my breast, and although looking at her I could not believe it. I touched her as though to assure myself that it was not a dream. My face as I saw it in the glass regarded me with astonishment. Who was that creature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was that pitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands? Was it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who at fifteen, leaning over the crystal waters of a fountain, had a heart not less pure than they? I closed my eyes and thought of my childhood days. As a ray of light pierces a cloud, a gleam from the past pierced my heart. No, I mused, I did not do that. These things are but an absurd dream. I recalled the time when I was ignorant of life, when I was taking my first steps in experience. I remembered an old beggar who used to sit on a stone bench before the farm gate to whom I was sometimes sent with the remains of our morning meal. Taking out his feeble wrinkled hands, he would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the morning wind blowing on my brow and a freshness as of the rose descending from heaven into my soul. Then I opened my eyes and, by the light of the lamp, saw the reality before me. And you do not believe yourself guilty, I demanded with horror. Oh, novice of yesterday, how corrupt today! Because you weep, you fondly imagine yourself innocent. What you consider the evidence of your conscience is only remorse, and what murderer does not experience it. If your virtue cries out, is it not because it fills the approach of death? O wretch, those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, do you think they are sobs? They are perhaps only the cry of the seamew, that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck. Who has ever told the story of the childhood of those who have died stained with human blood? They also have been good in their day, they sometimes bury their faces in their hands and think of those happy days. You do evil and you repent. Nero did the same when he killed his mother. Who has told you that tears can wash away the stains of guilt? And even if it were true that a part of your soul is not devoted to evil forever, what will you do with the other part that is not yours? You will touch with your left hand the wounds that you inflict with your right. You will make a shroud of your virtue, in which to bury your crimes, you will strike, and, like Brutus, you will engrave on your sword the Prattle of Plato. Into the heart of the being who opens her arms to you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm. You will follow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on her grave the sterile flower of your pity, you will say to those who see you, what would you expect? I have learned how to kill, and observed that I already weep. Learn that God made me better than you see me. You will speak of your youth, and you will persuade yourself that heaven ought to pardon you, that your misfortunes are involuntary, and you will implore sleepless nights to grant you a little repose. But who knows, you are still young. The more you trust in your heart, the farther astray you will be led by your pride. Today you stand before the first ruin you are going to leave on your route. If Brigitte dies tomorrow, you will weep on her tomb. Where will you go when you leave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you will travel in Italy. You will wrap your cloak about you like a splenetic Englishman, and you will say some beautiful morning, sitting in your inn with your glasses before you, that it is time to forget in order to live again. You who weep too late take care lest you weep more than one day. Who knows, when the present which makes you shudder shall have become the past, an old story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night of debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smile on your lips, what you witnessed with tears in your eyes. It is dust that one drinks away shame. You have begun by being good, you will become weak, and you will become a monster. My poor friend said I, from the bottom of my heart, I have a word of advice for you, and it is this, I believe that you must die. While there is still some virtue left, profit by it in order that you may not become altogether bad, while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, and while you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow. She still lives, that is enough. Do not attend to her funeral obsequies for fear that on the morrow you will not be consoled, turn the poignard against her own heart while that heart yet loves the God who made it. Is it your youth that makes you pause, and would you spare those useful locks? Never allow them to whiten if they are not white tonight. And then what would you do in the world if you go away, where will you go? What can you hope for if you remain? Ah, in looking at that woman you seem to have a treasure buried in your heart. It is not merely that you lose her, it is less what has been than what might have been. When the hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might have been happy. If you suffer, why do you not open your heart? If you love, why do you not say so? Why do you die of hunger, classing a priceless treasure in your hands? You have closed the door, you miser. You debate with yourself behind locks and bolts. Shake them, for it was your hand that forged them. O fool who have desired and have possessed your desire, you have not thought of God. You play with happiness as a child plays with a rattle, and you do not reflect how rare and fragile a thing you hold in your hands. You treat it with disdain. You smile at it, and you continue to amuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost your good angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight. Ah, if there is in heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? He is seated before an organ. His wings are half folded, his hands extended over the ivory keys. He begins an eternal hymn, the hymn of love and immortal rest. But his wings droop, his head falls over the keys. The angel of death has touched him on the shoulder. He disappears into immensity. And you, at the age of 22, when a noble and exalted passion, when the strength of youth might perhaps have made something of you, when after so many sorrows and bitter disappointments, a youth so dissipated, you saw a better time shining in the future, when your life, consecrated to the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength. At that moment the abyss yawns before you. You no longer experience vague desires, but real regrets. Your heart is no longer hungry, it is broken. And you hesitate? What do you expect? Since she no longer cares for your life, it counts for nothing. Since she abandons you, abandon yourself. Let those who have loved you in your youth weep for you. They are not many. If you would live, you must not only forget love, but you must deny that it exists. Not only deny what there has been of good in you, but kill all that may be good in the future. For what will you do if you remember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you must choose between your soul and your body. You must kill one or the other. The memory of the good drives you to the evil. Make a corpse of yourself unless you wish to become your own spectre. Oh child, child, die while you can. May tears be shed over thy grave. I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state of despair that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what I was doing. Brigitte sighed. My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know. Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me. What I muttered, leave that for another. Die, descend into the ground while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven. Just God, another hand of mine on that fine transparent skin. Another mouth on those lips. Another love in that heart. Brigitte, happy, loving, adored, an eye in a corner of the cemetery crumbling into dust in a ditch. How long will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist tomorrow? How many tears will she shed? None perhaps. Not a friend who speaks to her but will say that my death was a good thing. Who will not hasten to console her? Who will not urge her to forget me? If she weeps, they will seek to distract her attention from her loss. If memory haunts her, they will take her away. If her love for me survives me, they will seek to cure her as though she had been poisoned. Will she herself, who will perhaps at first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turn aside to avoid the weeping willow planted over my grave? How could it be otherwise? Who is beautiful as she wastes life in idle regrets? If she should think of dying of grief that beautiful bosom would urge her to live and her glass would persuade her and the day when her exhausted tears give place to the first smile, who will not congratulate her on her recovery? And after eight days of silence, she consents to hear my name pronounced in her presence, then she will speak of it herself as though to say, Consol me, then little by little she will no longer refuse to think of the past, but will speak of it, and she will open her window some beautiful spring morning when the birds are singing in the garden. She will become pensive and say, I have loved. Who will be there at her side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continue to love? Ah, then I will be no more. You will listen to him, faithless one. You will blush as does the budding rose, and the blood of youth will mount to your face. While saying that your heart is sealed, you will allow it to escape through that fresh aureole of beauty, each ray of which allures a kiss. How much they desire to be loved who say they love no more. And why should that astonish you? You are a woman, that body, that spotless bosom. You know what they are worth. When you conceal them under your dress, do you not believe as do the virgins, that they are all alike, and you know the price of your modesty? How can the woman who has been praised resolve to be praised no more? She thinks she is living when she remains in the shadow, and there is silence round about her beauty. Her beauty itself is the admiring glance of her lover. No, no, there can be no doubt of it. Who has loved cannot live without love. Who has seen death clings to life. Brigitte loves me and will perhaps die of love. I will kill myself and another will have her. Another, another, I repeated, bending over her until my head touched her shoulder. Is she not a widow? Has she not already seen death? Have not these little hands prepared the dead for burial? Her tears for the second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Oh, God, forgive me. While she sleeps, why should I not kill her? If I should awaken her now and tell her that her hour had come, and that we were going to die with a last kiss, she would consent. What does it matter? Is it certain that all does not end with that? I found a knife on the table and I picked it up. Fear coward is superstition. What do they know about it who talk of something else beyond? It is for the ignorant common people that a future life has been invented. But who really believes in it? What watcher in the cemetery has seen death leave his tomb and hold consultation with a priest? In olden times there were phantoms. They are interdicted by the police in civilised cities and no cries are now heard issuing from the earth except from those buried in haste. Who has silenced death if it has ever spoken? Because funeral processions are no longer permitted to encumber our streets, does the celestial spirit languish? To die that is the final purpose, the end. God has established it, man discusses it, but over every door is written, Do what thou wilt, thou shalt die. What will be said if I kill Brigitte? Neither of us will hear. In tomorrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octave the tea had killed his mistress and the day after no one would speak of it. Who would follow us to the grave? No one who, upon returning to his home, could not enjoy a hearty dinner, and when we were extended side by side in our narrow bed, the world could walk over our graves without disturbing us. Is it not true, my well beloved, is it not true that it would be well with us? It is a soft bed, that bed of earth, no suffering can reach us there. The occupants of the neighbouring tombs will not gossip about us, our bones will embrace in peace and without pride for death is solace, and that which binds does not also separate. Why should annihilation frighten the poor body destined to corruption? Every hour that strikes drags the onto-die doom, every step breaks the round on which thou has just rested. Thou art nourished by the dead, the air of heaven weighs upon and crushes thee, the earth on which thou treadest attacks thee by the soles of thy feet. Down with thee, why art thou affrighted? Thou dost tremble at a word, merely say, we will not live. Is not life a burden that we long to lay down? Why hesitate when it is merely a question of a little sooner or a little later? Matter is indestructible, and the physicists we are told grind to infinity the smallest speck of dust without being able to annihilate it. If matter is the property of chance, what harm can it do to change its form since it cannot cease to be matter? Why should God care what form I have received and with what library I invest my grief? Suffering lives in my brain, it belongs to me, I kill it, but my bones do not belong to me, and I return them to him who lent them to me. May some poet make a cup of my skull from which to drink his new wine. What reproach can I incur, and what harm can that reproach do me? What stern judge will tell me that I have done wrong? What does he know about it? Was he such as I? If every creature has his task to perform, and if it is a crime to shirk it, what culprits are the babes who die on the nurse's breast? Why should they be spared? Who will be instructed by the lessons which are taught after death? Must heaven be a desert in order that man may be punished for having lived? Is it not enough to have lived? I do not know who asked that question unless it was Voltaire on his deathbed. It is a cry of despair worthy of a helpless old atheist. But to what purpose? Why so many struggles? Who is there above us who delights in so much agony? Who amuses himself and wiles away an idle hour watching this spectacle of creation? Always renewed and always dying, seeing the work of man's hands rising, the grass growing, looking upon the planting of the seed and the fall of a thunderbolt, beholding man walking about upon his earth until he meets the beckoning finger of death, counting tears and watching them dry upon the cheek of pain, noting the pure profile of love and the wrinkled face of age? Seeing hands stretch up to him in supplication, bodies prostrate before him and not a blade of wheat more in the harvest. Who is it then who has made so much for the pleasure of knowing that it all amounts to nothing? The earth is dying, her shell says it is of cold. Who holds in his hand a drop of condensed vapour and watches it as it dries up, as an angler watches a grain of sand in his hand? That mighty law of attraction that suspends the world in space torments it and consumes it in endless desire. Every planet carries its load of misery and groans on its axle. They call to each other across the abyss and each wonders which will stop first. God controls them, they accomplish assiduously and eternally their appointed and useless task. They whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they become extinct and they light up with new flame. They descend and they re-ascend, they follow and yet they avoid each other, they interlace like rings, they carry on their surface thousands of beings who are ceaselessly renewed. The beings move about, cross each other's paths, clasp each other for an hour and then fall and others rise in their place. Where life fails, life hastens to the spot, where air is wanting air rushes. No disorder, everything is regulated, marked out, written down in lines of gold and parables of fire. Everything keeps stepped with the celestial music along the pitiless paths of life and all for nothing. And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, helpless ephemera, we who are animated by the breath of a second in order that death may exist. We exhaust ourselves with fatigue in order to prove that we are living for a purpose and that something indefinable is stirring within us. We hesitate to turn against our breasts a little piece of steel or blow out our brains with a little instrument no larger than our hand. It seems to us that chaos would return again. We have written and revised the laws, both human and divine, and we are afraid of our catechisms. We suffer thirty years without murmuring and imagine that we are struggling. Finally suffering becomes the stronger, we send a pinch of powder into the sanctuary of intelligence and a flower pierces the soil above our grave. As I finished these words, I directed the knife I held in my hand against Brigitte's bosom. I was no longer master of myself and in my delirious condition I know not what might have happened. I threw back the bed-clothing to uncover the heart when I discovered on her white bosom a little ebony crucifix. I recoiled, seized with sudden fear. My hand relaxed, my weapon fell to the floor. It was Brigitte's aunt who had given her that little crucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember ever having seen it before. Doubtless at the moment of setting out, she had suspended it about her neck as a preserving charm against the dangers of the journey. Suddenly I joined my hands and knelt on the floor. Oh Lord, my God, I said in trembling tones. Lord, my God, thou art there. Let those who do not believe in Christ read this page. I no longer disbelieve in him, neither as a child nor at school nor as a man have I frequented churches. My religion, if I had any, had neither right nor symbol and I believe in a God without form, without a cult, and without revelation. Poisoned from youth by all the writings of the last century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against prayer while my affrighted soul took refuge in the hope of nothingness. I was as though drunken or insensitive when I saw that effigy of Christ on Brigitte's bosom. While not believing in him myself, I recoiled, knowing that she believed in him. It was not vain terror that arrested my hand. Who saw me? I was alone and it was night. Was it prejudice? What prevented me from hurling out of my sight that little piece of black wood? I could have thrown it into the fire, but it was my weapon I threw there. Ah, what an experience that was and still is for my soul. What miserable wretches are men who mock at that which can save a human being? What matters the name, the form, the belief is not all that is good, sacred? How dare anyone touch God? As at a glance from the sun, the snows descend the mountains and the glaciers that threatened heaven melt into streams in the valley, so they're descended into my heart a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance is a pure incense. It exhaled from all my suffering. Although I had almost committed a crime when my hand was arrested, I felt that my heart was innocent. In an instant, calm, self-possession, reason returned. I again approached the bed. I leaned over my idol and kissed the crucifix. Sleeping peace, I said to her. God watches over you. While your lips were parting in a smile, you were in greater danger than you have ever known before, but the hand that threatened you will harm no one. I swear by the faith you profess, I will not kill either you or myself. I am a fool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised. You are young and beautiful. You live and you will forget me. You will recover from the evil I have done you, if you can forgive me. Sleeping peace until day brejeit and then decide our fate. Whatever sentence you pronounce, I will submit without complaint. And thou, Lord, who has saved me, grant me pardon. I was born in an impious century and I have many crimes to expiate. Thou, Son of God, whom men forget, I have not been taught to love thee. I have never worshipped in thy temples, but I thank heaven that where I find thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at least kissed with my lips a heart that is full of thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts. Dwell within it, thou holy one. A poor unfortunate has been brave enough to defy death at the sight of thy suffering and thy death. Thou impious, thou has saved him from evil. If he had believed, thou wouldst have consoled him. Pardon those who have made him incredulous since thou has made him repentant. Pardon those who blaspheme. When they were in despair, they did not see thee. Human joys are a mockery, they are scornful and pitiless. O Lord, the happy of this world think they have no need of thee. Pardon them. Although their pride may outrage thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptised in tears. Grant that they may cease to believe in any other shelter from the tempest than thy love, and spare them the severe lessons of unhappiness. Our wisdom and scepticism are in our hands, but children's toys. Forgive us for dreaming that we can defy thee, thou who smileest at Golgotha. The worst result of all our vain misery is that it tempts us to forget thee, but thou knowest that it is all but a shadow which a glance from thee can dissipate. Has not thou thyself been a man? It was sorrow that made thee God. Sorrow is an instrument of torture by which thou has mounted to the very throne of God thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us to thee as it led thee to thy Father. We come to thee with our crown of thorns and kneel before thy mercy seat. We touch thy bleeding feet with our bloodstained hands, and thou has suffered martyrdom for being loved by the unfortunate. The first rays of dawn began to appear. Man and nature were rousing themselves from sleep, and the air was filled with the confusion of distant sounds. Weak and exhausted, I was about to leave Brigitte and seek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown on a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in its folds I spied a piece of paper. I picked it up. It was a letter, and I recognized Brigitte's hand. The envelope was not sealed. I opened it and read as follows. 23rd of December, 1800 When you receive this letter, I shall be far away from you, and shall perhaps never see you again. My destiny is bound that with that of a man for whom I have sacrificed everything. He cannot live without me, and I am going to try to die for him. I love you, adieu, and pity us. I turned the letter over when I had read it, and saw that it was addressed to Monsieur Henri-Smith, n. Poste restante. End of Chapter 6, Part 5, Book 3 Recording by John Crowdy, Turku, Finland Chapter 7, 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 Crowdy Confession of a Child of the Century by Alfred de Musée Translated by Kendall Warren Book 3, Part 5, Chapter 7 On the morrow, a clear December day, a young man and a woman who rested on his arm passed through the Garden of the Palais Royale. They entered a jeweller's store where they chose two similar rings which they smilingly exchanged. After a short walk, they took breakfast at the Freyre's Provenceau in one of those little rooms which are, all things considered, one of the most beautiful spots in the world. There, when the garçon had left them, they sat near the windows, hand in hand. The young man was in travelling dress. To see the joy which shone on his face, one would have taken him for a young husband showing his young wife the beauties and pleasures of Parisian life. His happiness was calm and subdued as true happiness always is. The experienced would have recognised in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time he looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in his eyes, but he heeded them not and smiled as he wept. The woman was pale and thoughtful, her eyes were fixed on the man. On her face were traces of sorrow which she could not conceal, although evidently touched by the exalted joy of her companion. When he smiled she smiled too, but never alone. When he spoke she replied and she ate what he served her, but there was about her a silence which was only broken at his instance. In her langer could be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of the weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other, and responds to him as does the echo. The young man was conscious of it and seemed proud of it and grateful for it, but it could be seen even by his pride that his happiness was new to him. When the woman became sad and her eyes fell he cheered her with his glance, but he could not always succeed and seemed troubled himself. That mingling of strength and weakness of joy and sorrow of anxiety and serenity could not have been understood by an indifferent spectator. At times they appeared the most happy of living creatures and the next moment the most unhappy, but although ignorant of their secret one would have felt that they were suffering together and whatever their mysterious trouble it could be seen that they had placed on their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself. Friendship While their hands were clasped their glances were chased although they were alone they spoke in low tones. As though overcome by their feelings they sat face to face although their lips did not touch. They looked at each other tenderly and solemnly. When the clock struck one the woman heaved a sigh and said, Octave are you sure of yourself? Yes my friend I am resolved. I will suffer much a long time perhaps forever but we will cure ourselves you with time I with God. Octave Octave repeated the woman are you sure you are not deceiving yourself? I do not believe we can forget each other but I believe that we can forgive and that is what I desire even at the price of separation. Why could we not meet again? Why not someday? You are so young. Then she added with a smile. We could see each other without danger. No my friend for you must know that I could never see you again without loving you. May he to whom I bequeath you be worthy of you. Smith is brave good and honest but however much you may love him you see very well that you still love me for if I should decide to remain or to take you away with me you would consent. It is true replied the woman true true repeated the young man looking into her eyes with all his soul is it true that if I wished it you would go with me? Then he continued softly that is the reason I must never see you again. There are certain loves in life that overturn the head the senses the mind the heart there is among them all but one that does not disturb that penetrates and that dies only with the being in which it has taken root. But you will write to me. Yes at first for what I have to suffer is so keen that the absence of the habitual object of my love would kill me. When I was unknown to you I gradually approached closer and closer to you until but let us not go into the past little by little my letters will become less frequent until they cease all together. I will thus descend the hill that I have been climbing for the past year when one stands before a fresh grave over which are engraved two cherished names one experiences a mysterious sense of grief which causes tears to trickle down one's cheeks it is thus that I wish to remember having once lived. At these words the woman threw herself on the couch and burst into tears. The young man wept with her but he did not move and seemed anxious to appear unconscious of her emotion. When her tears ceased to flow he approached her took her hand in his and kissed it. Believe me he said to be loved by you whatever the name of the place I occupy in your heart will give me strength and courage. Rest assured Brigitte no one will ever understand you better than I another will love you more worthily no one will love you more truly. Another will be considerate of those feelings that I offend he will surround you with his love you will have a better lover you will not have a better brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh at a word that it does not understand. Let us be friends and adieu forever. Before we became such intimate friends there was something within that told us that we were destined to mingle our lives. Let that part of us which is still joined in God's sight never know that we have parted upon earth. Let not the paltry chance of a moment undo the union of our eternal happiness. He held the woman's hand she arose tears streaming from her eyes and stepping up to the mirror with a strange smile on her face she cut from her head a long tress of hair then she looked at herself thus disfigured and deprived of a part of a beautiful crown and gave it to her lover. The clock struck again it was time to go when they passed out they seemed as joyful as when they entered. What a glorious sun said the young man and a beautiful day said Brigitte the memory of which shall never fade. They hastened away and disappeared in the crowd. A moment later a carriage passed over a little hill beyond Fontenblur. The young man was the only occupant. He looked for the last time upon his native town as it disappeared in the distance and thank God that of the three beings who had suffered through his fault there remained but one of them still unhappy. End of chapter seven part five book three recording by John Crowdy Turku Finland End of part five End of book three End of confession of a child of the century by Alfreda Mousset translated by Kendall Warren