Marco opened her eyes. She saw me with the letter in my hand.

"It is my mother," she said, "who is dead. You are not coming?"

As she spoke she extended her hand.

"Silence!" I said; "sleep and leave me to myself."

She turned over and went to sleep. I looked at her for some time to a.s.sure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left the house.

CHAPTER V

ONE evening I was seated by the fire with Desgenais. The window was open; it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring. It had been raining and a sweet odor came from the garden.

"What shall we do this spring?" I asked. "I do not care to travel."

"I shall do what I did last year," replied Desgenais. "I shall go to the country when the time comes."

"What!" I replied. "Do you do the same thing every year? Are you going to begin life over again this year?"

"What would you expect me to do?"

"What would I expect you to do?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "That is just like you. Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tire of this sort of life?"

"No," he replied.

I was standing before an engraving of the Madeleine. Involuntarily I joined my hands.

"What are you doing?" asked Desgenais.

"If I were an artist," I replied, "and wished to represent Melancholy, I would not paint a dreamy girl with a book in her hands."

"What is the matter with you this evening?" he asked, smiling.

"No, in truth," I continued, "that Madeleine, in tears, has the spark of hope in her bosom; that pale and sickly hand on which she supports her head, is still sweet with the perfume with which she anointed the feet of her Lord. You do not understand that in that desert there are thinking people who pray. This is not Melancholy."

"It is a woman who reads," he replied dryly.

"And a happy woman," I continued, "and a happy book."

Desgenais understood me; he saw that a profound sadness had taken possession of me. He asked if I had some secret cause of sorrow. I hesitated, but did not reply.

"My dear Octave," he said, "if you have any trouble, do not hesitate to confide in me. Speak freely and you will find that I am your friend!"

"I know it," I replied, "I know I have a friend; that is not my trouble."

He urged me to explain.

"But what will it avail," I asked, "since neither of us can help matters?

Do you want the bottom of my heart or merely a word and an excuse?"

"Be frank!" he said.

"Very well," I replied, "you have seen fit to give me advice in the past and now I ask you to listen to me as I have listened to you. You ask what is in my heart and I am about to tell you.

"Take the first comer and say to him: 'Here are people who pa.s.s their lives drinking, riding, laughing, gambling, enjoying all kinds of pleasures; no barrier restrains them, their law is their pleasure, women are their playthings; they are rich. They have no cares, not one. All their days are days of feasting.' What do you think of it? Unless that man happened to be a severe bigot he would probably reply that that was the greatest happiness that could be imagined.

"Then take that man into the thick of the action, place him at a table with a woman on either side, a gla.s.s in his hand, a handful of gold every morning and say to him: 'This is your life. While you sleep near your mistress, your horses neigh in the stables; while you drive your horses along the boulevards, your wines are ripening in your vaults; while you pa.s.s away the night drinking, the bankers are increasing your wealth. You have but to express a wish and your desires are gratified. You are the happiest of men. But take care lest some night of carousal you drink too much and destroy the capacity of your body for enjoyment. That would be a serious misfortune, for all the ills that afflict human flesh can be cured, except that. You ride some night through the woods with joyous companions; your horse falls and you are thrown into a ditch filled with mud, and it may be that your companions, in the midst of their happy fanfares, will not hear your cry of anguish; it may be that the sound of their trumpets will die away in the distance while you drag your broken limbs through the deserted forest. Some night you will lose at the gaming table; Fortune has its bad days. When you return to your home and are seated before the fire, do not strike your forehead with your hands, and do not allow sorrow to moisten your cheeks with tears, do not bitterly cast your eyes about here and there as though seeking for a friend; do not, under any circ.u.mstances, think of those who, under some thatched roof, enjoy a tranquil life and who sleep holding each other by the hand; for before you, on your luxurious bed, will sit a pale creature who loves--your money. You will seek from her consolation for your grief, and she will remark that you are very sad and ask if your loss was considerable; the tears from your eyes will concern her deeply, for they may be the cause of allowing her dress to grow old or the rings to drop from her fingers. Do not name him who won your money that night for she may meet him on the morrow, and she may make sweet eyes at him that would destroy your remaining happiness. That is what is to be expected of human frailty; have you the strength to endure it? Are you a man? Beware of disgust, it is an incurable evil; death is more to be desired than a living distaste for life. Have you a heart? Beware of love, for it is worse than disease for a debauchee and it is ridiculous. Debauchees pay their mistresses, and the woman who sells herself has no right but that of contempt for the purchaser. Are you pa.s.sionate? Take care of your face. It is shameful for a soldier to throw down his arms and for a debauchee to appear to hold to anything; his glory consists in touching nothing except with hands of marble that have been bathed in oil in order that nothing may stick to them. Are you hot-headed? If you desire to live, learn how to kill, for wine is a wrangler. Have you a conscience?

Take care of your slumber, for a debauchee who repents too late is like a ship that leaks: it can neither return to land nor continue on its course; the winds can with difficulty move it, the ocean yawns for it, it careens and disappears. If you have a body, look out for suffering; if you have a soul, despair awaits you. O, unhappy one! beware of men; while they walk along the same path with you, you will seem to see a vast plain strewn with garlands where a happy throng of dancers trip the gladsome _furandole_ standing in a circle, each a link in an endless chain; it is but a mirage; those who look down know that they are dancing on a silken thread stretched over an abyss that swallows up all who fall and shows not even a ripple on its surface. What foot is sure? Nature herself seems to deny you her divine consolation; trees and flowers are yours no more; you have broken your mother's laws, you are no longer one of her foster-children, the birds of the field become silent when you appear.

You are alone! Beware of G.o.d! You are face to face with Him, standing like a cold statue upon the pedestal of will. The rain from heaven no longer refreshes you, it undermines and weakens you. The pa.s.sing wind no longer gives you the kiss of life, the benediction on all that lives and breathes; it buffets you and makes you stagger. Every woman who kisses you, takes from you a spark of life and gives you none in return; you exhaust yourself on fantoms; wherever falls a drop of our sweat, there springs up one of those sinister weeds that grow in graveyards. Die! You are the enemy of all, who love; blot yourself from the face of the earth, do not wait for old age; do not leave a child behind you, do not fecundate a drop of your corrupted blood; vanish as does the smoke, do not deprive a single blade of living gra.s.s of a ray of sunlight!'"

When I had spoken these words, I fell back in my chair and a flood of tears streamed from my eyes.

"Ah! Desgenais," I cried, sobbing, "this is not what you told me. Did you not know it? And if you did, why did you not tell me of it?"

But Desgenais sat still with folded hands; he was as pale as a shroud and a long tear trickled down his cheek.

A moment of silence ensued. The clock struck; I suddenly remembered that it was this hour and this day, one year ago, that my mistress deceived me.

"Do you hear that clock?" I cried, "do you hear it? I do not know what it means at this moment, but it is a terrible hour and one that will count in my life."

I was beside myself and scarcely knew what I was saying. But that instant a servant rushed into the room; he took my hand and led me aside, whispering in my ear:

"Sir, I have come to inform you that your father is dying; he has just been seized with an attack of apoplexy and the physicians despair of his life."

PART III

CHAPTER I

MY father lived in the country, some miles from Paris. When I arrived, I found a physician at the door who said to me:

"You are too late; your father expressed a desire to see you before he died."

I entered and saw my father dead. "Sir," I said to the physician, "please have every one retire that I may be alone here; my father had something to say to me, and he will say it."

In obedience to my order the servants left the room. I approached the bed and raised the shroud which already covered the face. But when my eyes fell on that face, I stooped to kiss it and lost consciousness.

When I recovered, I heard some one say:

"If he requests it, you must refuse him on some pretext or other."

I understood that they wanted to get me away from the bed of death and so I feigned that I had heard nothing. When they saw that I was resting quietly, they left me. I waited until the house was quiet and then took a candle and made my way to my father's room. I found there a young priest seated near the bed.

"Sir," I said, "to dispute with an orphan the last vigil at a father's side, is a bold enterprise. I do not know what your orders may be. You may remain in the adjoining room; if anything happens, I alone am responsible."