I paced up and down in my room, then dined, as in a dream, and went out, lured by humanity.

A cafe! The bright lighting beckoned to me to enter. Calm, simple, care-free people, who have no task like mine to accomplish.

Sitting by herself at a table, constantly looking around, was a girl with a painted face. A full gla.s.s was set in front of her and she held a little dog on her lap. His head reached over the edge of the marble table, and he comically sued on behalf of his mistress for the glances, even the smiles of the pa.s.sersby.

The woman looked at me with interest. She saw I was not waiting for anybody or anything.

A sign, a word, and she, who was waiting for everybody, would come over to me with a smile. But no! I was simpler than that. If love troubled me, it was because of a great thought and not a mere instinct.

It was my misfortune to have a dream greater and stronger than I could bear.

Woe to those who dream of what they do not possess! They are right, but they are too right, and so are outside of nature. The simple, the weak, the humble pa.s.s carelessly by what is not meant for them. They touch everything lightly, without anguish. But the others! But I!

I wanted to take what was not mine. I wanted to steal. I wanted to live all lives, to dwell in all hearts.

Ah! I saw now how I should be punished for having entered into the living secrets of man. My punishment would fit my crime. I was destined to undergo the infinite misery I read in the others. I was to be punished by every mystery that kept its secret, by every woman who went by.

Infinity is not what we think. We a.s.sociate it with heroes of legend and romance, and we invest fiery, exceptional characters, like a Hamlet, with infinity as with a theatrical costume. But infinity resides quietly in that man who is just pa.s.sing by on the street. It resides in me, just as I am, with my ordinary face and name, in me, who want everything I have not. And there is no reason why there should be any limits to what I want.

So, step by step, I followed the track of the infinite. It made me suffer. Ah, if I did wrong, that great misery of mine, the tragedy of striving for the impossible, redeemed me. But I do not believe in redemption. I was suffering, and doubtless I looked like a martyr.

I had to go home to fulfil my martyrdom in the whole of its wretched duration. I had to go on looking. I was losing time in the world outside. I returned to my room, which welcomed me like a living being.

I pa.s.sed two idle days, watching fruitlessly.

I took to my hasty pacing to and fro again and succeeded, not without difficulty, in gaining a few days of respite, in making myself forget for a while.

I dwelt within these walls quiet in a feverish sort of way and inactive as a prisoner. I walked up and down my room a great part of the day, attracted by the opening in the wall and not daring to go away to a distance from it again.

The long hours went by, and in the evening I was worn out by my indefatigable hope.

The room was in disorder. Amy was there with her husband. They had come back from a journey.

I had not heard them enter. I must have been too tired.

He had his hat on and was sitting on a chair beside the bed. She was dressing. I saw her disappear behind the washroom door. I looked at the husband. His features were regular and even seemed to show a certain n.o.bility. The line of his forehead was clear cut. Only his mouth and moustache were somewhat coa.r.s.e. He had a healthier, stronger appearance than her lover. His hand, which was toying with a cane, was fine, and there was a forceful elegance about his whole personality.

That was the man she hated and was deceiving. It was that head, that face, that expression which had lowered and disfigured themselves in her eyes, and were synonymous with her unhappiness.

All at once she was there in full view. My heart stood still and contracted and drew me toward her. She had nothing on but a short, thin chemise. She had come back a bit tired out by the thousands of little nothings she had already done. She had a toothbrush in her hand, her lips were moist and red, her hair dishevelled. Her legs were dainty, and the arch of her little feet was accentuated by her high- heeled shoes.

The air in the closed room was heavy with a mixture of odours--soap, face powder, the pungent scent of cologne.

She went out and came back again, warm and soapy, drying her face.

This time she was all fresh and rosy.

He was talking about something, with his legs stretched out a little, sometimes looking at her, sometimes not looking at her.

"You know, the Bernards have not accepted."

He glanced at her, then looked down at the carpet and gave a disappointed cluck with his tongue, absorbed in this matter that interested him, while she kept going and coming, showing the lovely curves of her body.

She /was/ lovely. But her husband went on droning his commonplaces, phrases that meant nothing to her, that were strange to her, and that seemed blasphemous in the room which held her beauty.

She put her garments on, one by one. Her husband continued in his b.e.s.t.i.a.l indifference, and dropped back into his reflections.

She went to the mirror over the mantelpiece with toilet articles spread out before her. Probably the mirror in the washroom was too small.

While keeping on with her toilet, she spoke as if to herself in a gay, animated, chatty way, because it was still the springtime of the day.

She gave herself careful attention and took much time to groom herself.

But this was an important matter, and the time was not lost. Besides, she was really hurrying.

Now she went to a wardrobe and took out a light dress of delicate texture, which she held out in her arms carefully.

She started to put the dress on, then an idea suddenly occurred to her and she stopped.

"No, no, no, decidedly not," she said.

She put the dress back and looked for another one, a dark skirt and a blouse.

She took a hat, fluffed the ribbon a bit, then held the tr.i.m.m.i.n.g of roses close to her face in front of the mirror. Then she began to sing, evidently satisfied.

He did not look at her, and when he did look at her, he did not see her.

It was a solemn spectacle, a drama, but a drama dismal and depressing.

That man was not happy, and yet I envied him his happiness. How explain this except by the fact that happiness is within us, within each of us, and is the desire for what we do not possess?

These two were together, but in reality far apart. They had left each other without leaving each other. A sort of intrigue about nothing held them together. They would never come nearer again, for between them lay the impa.s.sable barrier of love over and done with. This silence and this mutual ignorance are the cruelest things in the world.

To cease to love is worse than to hate, for say what you will, death is worse than suffering.

I am sorry for the men and women who go through life together in the chains of indifference. I am sorry for the poor heart that has what it has for so short a time. I am sorry for the men who have the heart not to love any more.

And for a moment, seeing this simple harrowing scene, I underwent a little of the enormous suffering of those innumerable people who suffer all.

Amy finished dressing. She put on a coat to match her skirt, leaving it partly open to show her transparent flesh-coloured lingerie waist.

Then she left us--her husband and me.

He, too, made ready to leave, but the door opened again. Was it Amy coming back? No, it was the maid, who, seeing the room was occupied, started to withdraw.

"Excuse me, sir. I came to put the room in order, but I don't want to disturb you."