第 81 页

have both been saved, together, together! Ah! that lie which he, prompted

by affection and charity, had told, that error in which he had from that

moment suffered her to remain, with what a weight did it oppress his

heart! It was the heavy slab which walled him in his voluntarily chosen

sepulchre. He remembered the frightful attack of grief which had almost

killed him in the gloom of the crypt, his sobs, his brutal revolt, his

longing to keep her for himself alone, to possess her since he knew her

to be his own--all that rising passion of his awakened manhood, which

little by little had fallen asleep again, drowned by the rushing river of

his tears; and in order that he might not destroy the divine illusion

which possessed her, yielding to brotherly compassion, he had taken that

heroic vow to lie to her, that vow which now filled him with such

anguish.

Pierre shuddered amidst his reverie. Would he have the strength to keep

that vow forever? Had he not detected a feeling of impatience in his

heart even whilst he was waiting for her at the railway station, a

jealous longing to leave that Lourdes which she loved too well, in the

vague hope that she might again become his own, somewhere far away? If he

had not been a priest he would have married her. And what rapture, what

felicity would then have been his! He would have given himself wholly

unto her, she would have been wholly his own, and he and she would have

lived again in the dear child that would doubtless have been born to

them. Ah! surely that alone was divine, the life which is complete, the

life which creates life! And then his reverie strayed: he pictured

himself married, and the thought filled him with such delight that he

asked why such a dream should be unrealisable? She knew no more than a

child of ten; he would educate her, form her mind. She would then

understand that this cure for which she thought herself indebted to the

Blessed Virgin, had in reality come to her from the Only Mother, serene

and impassive Nature. But even whilst he was thus settling things in his

mind, a kind of terror, born of his religious education, arose within

him. Could he tell if that human happiness with which he desired to endow

her would ever be worth as much as the holy ignorance, the infantile

candour in which she now lived? How bitterly he would reproach himself

afterwards if she should not be happy. Then, too, what a drama it would

all be; he to throw off the cassock, and marry this girl healed by an

alleged miracle--ravage her faith sufficiently to induce her to consent

to such sacrilege? Yet therein lay the brave course; there lay reason,

life, real manhood, real womanhood. Why, then, did he not dare? Horrible

sadness was breaking upon his reverie, he became conscious of nothing

beyond the sufferings of his poor heart.

The train was still rolling along with its great noise of flapping wings.

Beside Pierre and Marie, only Sister Hyacinthe was still awake amidst the

weary slumber of the carriage; and just then, Marie leant towards Pierre,

and softly said to him: "It's strange, my friend; I am so sleepy, and yet

I can't sleep." Then, with alight laugh, she added: "I've got Paris in my

head!"

"How is that--Paris?"

"Yes, yes. I'm thinking that it's waiting for me, that I am about to

return to it--that Paris which I know nothing of, and where I shall have

to live!"

These words brought fresh anguish to Pierre's heart. He had well foreseen

it; she could no longer belong to him, she would belong to others. If

Lourdes had restored her to him, Paris was about to take her from him

again. And he pictured this ignorant little being fatally acquiring all

the education of woman. That little spotless soul which had remained so

candid in the frame of a big girl of three-and-twenty, that soul which

illness had kept apart from others, far from life, far even from novels,

would soon ripen, now that it could fly freely once more. He beheld her,

a gay, healthy young girl, running everywhere, looking and learning, and,

some day, meeting the husband who would finish her education.

"And so," said he, "you propose to amuse yourself in Paris?"

"Oh! what are you saying, my friend? Are we rich enough to amuse

ourselves?" she replied. "No, I was thinking of my poor sister Blanche,

and wondering what I should be able to do in Paris to help her a little.

She is so good, she works so hard; I don't wish that she should have to

continue earning all the money."

And, after a fresh pause, as he, deeply moved, remained silent, she

added: "Formerly, before I suffered so dreadfully, I painted miniatures

rather nicely. You remember, don't you, that I painted a portrait of papa

which was very like him, and which everybody praised. You will help me,

won't you? You will find me customers?"

Then she began talking of the new life which she was about to live. She

wanted to arrange her room and hang it with cretonne, something pretty,

with a pattern of little blue flowers. She would buy it out of the first

money she could save. Blanche had spoken to her of the big shops where

things could be bought so cheaply. To go out with Blanche and run about a

little would be so amusing for her, who, confined to her bed since

childhood, had never seen anything. Then Pierre, who for a moment had

been calmer, again began to suffer, for he could divine all her glowing

desire to live, her ardour to see everything, know everything, and taste

everything. It was at last the awakening of the woman whom she was

destined to be, whom he had divined in childhood's days--a dear creature

of gaiety and passion, with blooming lips, starry eyes, a milky

complexion, golden hair, all resplendent with the joy of being.

"Oh! I shall work, I shall work," she resumed; "but you are right,

Pierre, I shall also amuse myself, because it cannot be a sin to be gay,

can it?"

"No, surely not, Marie."

"On Sundays we will go into the country, oh very far away, into the woods

where there are beautiful trees. And we will sometimes go to the theatre,

too, if papa will take us. I have been told that there are many plays

that one may see. But, after all, it's not all that. Provided I can go

out and walk in the streets and see things, I shall be so happy; I shall

come home so gay. It is so nice to live, is it not, Pierre?"

"Yes, yes, Marie, it is very nice."

A chill like that of death was coming over him; his regret that he was no

longer a man was filling him with agony. But since she tempted him like

this with her irritating candour, why should he not confess to her the

truth which was ravaging his being? He would have won her, have conquered

her. Never had a more frightful struggle arisen between his heart and his

will. For a moment he was on the point of uttering irrevocable words.

But with the voice of a joyous child she was already resuming: "Oh! look

at poor papa; how pleased he must be to sleep so soundly!"

On the seat in front of them M. de Guersaint was indeed slumbering with a

comfortable expression on his face, as though he were in his bed, and had

no consciousness of the continual jolting of the train. This monotonous

rolling and heaving seemed, in fact, a lullaby rocking the whole carriage

to sleep. All surrendered themselves to it, sinking powerless on to the

piles of bags and parcels, many of which had also fallen; and the

rhythmical growling of the wheels never ceased in the unknown darkness

through which the train was still rolling. Now and again, as they passed

through a station or under a bridge, there would be a loud rush of wind,

a tempest would suddenly sweep by; and then the lulling, growling sound

would begin again, ever the same for hours together.

Marie gently took hold of Pierre's hands; he and she were so lost, so

completely alone among all those prostrated beings, in the deep, rumbling

peacefulness of the train flying across the black night. And sadness, the

sadness which she had hitherto hidden, had again come back to her,

casting a shadow over her large blue eyes.

"You will often come with us, my good Pierre, won't you?" she asked.

He had started on feeling her little hand pressing his own. His heart was

on his lips, he was making up his mind to speak. However, he once again

restrained himself and stammered: "I am not always at liberty, Marie; a

priest cannot go everywhere."

"A priest?" she repeated. "Yes, yes, a priest. I understand."

Then it was she who spoke, who confessed the mortal secret which had been

oppressing her heart ever since they had started. She leant nearer, and

in a lower voice resumed: "Listen, my good Pierre; I am fearfully sad. I

may look pleased, but there is death in my soul. You did not tell me the

truth yesterday."

He became quite scared, but did not at first understand her. "I did not

tell you the truth--About what?" he asked.

A kind of shame restrained her, and she again hesitated at the moment of

descending into the depths of another conscience than her own. Then, like

a friend, a sister, she continued: "No, you let me believe that you had

been saved with me, and it was not true, Pierre, you have not found your

lost faith again."

Good Lord! she knew. For him this was desolation, such a catastrophe that

he forgot his torments. And, at first, he obstinately clung to the

falsehood born of his fraternal charity. "But I assure you, Marie. How

can you have formed such a wicked idea?"

"Oh! be quiet, my friend, for pity's sake. It would grieve me too deeply

if you were to speak to me falsely again. It was yonder, at the station,

at the moment when we were starting, and that unhappy man had died. Good

Abbe Judaine had knelt down to pray for the repose of that rebellious

soul. And I divined everything, I understood everything when I saw that

you did not kneel as well, that prayer did not rise to your lips as to

his."

"But, really, I assure you, Marie--"

"No, no, you did not pray for the dead; you no longer believe. And

besides, there is something else; something I can guess, something which

comes to me from you, a despair which you can't hide from me, a

melancholy look which comes into your poor eyes directly they meet mine.

The Blessed Virgin did not grant my prayer, she did not restore your

faith, and I am very, very wretched."

She was weeping, a hot tear fell upon the priest's hand, which she was

still holding. It quite upset him, and he ceased struggling, confessing,

in his turn letting his tears flow, whilst, in a very low voice, he

stammered: "Ah! Marie, I am very wretched also. Oh! so very wretched."

For a moment they remained silent, in their cruel grief at feeling that

the abyss which parts different beliefs was yawning between them. They

would never belong to one another again, and they were in despair at

being so utterly unable to bring themselves nearer to one another; but

the severance was henceforth definitive, since Heaven itself had been

unable to reconnect the bond. And thus, side by side, they wept over

their separation.

"I who prayed so fervently for your conversion," she said in a dolorous

voice, "I who was so happy. It had seemed to me that your soul was

mingling with mine; and it was so delightful to have been saved together,

together. I felt such strength for life; oh, strength enough to raise the

world!"

He did not answer; his tears were still flowing, flowing without end.

"And to think," she resumed, "that I was saved all alone; that this great

happiness fell upon me without you having any share in it. And to see you

so forsaken, so desolate, when I am loaded with grace and joy, rends my

heart. Ah! how severe the Blessed Virgin has been! Why did she not heal

your soul at the same time that she healed my body?"

The last opportunity was presenting itself; he ought to have illumined

this innocent creature's mind with the light of reason, have explained

the miracle to her, in order that life, after accomplishing its healthful

work in her body, might complete its triumph by throwing them into one

another's arms. He also was healed, his mind was healthy now, and it was

not for the loss of faith, but for the loss of herself, that he was

weeping. However, invincible compassion was taking possession of him

amidst all his grief. No, no, he would not trouble that dear soul; he

would not rob her of her belief, which some day might prove her only stay

amidst the sorrows of this world. One cannot yet require of children and

women the bitter heroism of reason. He had not the strength to do it; he

even thought that he had not the right. It would have seemed to him

violation, abominable murder. And he did not speak out, but his tears

flowed, hotter and hotter, in this immolation of his love, this

despairing sacrifice of his own happiness in order that she might remain

candid and ignorant and gay at heart.

"Oh, Marie, how wretched I am! Nowhere on the roads, nowhere at the

galleys even, is there a man more wretched than myself! Oh, Marie, if you

only knew; if you only knew how wretched I am!"

She was distracted, and caught him in her trembling arms, wishing to

console him with a sisterly embrace. And at that moment the woman awaking

within her understood everything, and she herself sobbed with sorrow that

both human and divine will should thus part them. She had never yet

reflected on such things, but suddenly she caught a glimpse of life, with

its passions, its struggles, and its sufferings; and then, seeking for

what she might say to soothe in some degree that broken heart, she

stammered very faintly, distressed that she could find nothing sweet

enough, "I know, I know--"

Then the words it was needful she should speak came to her; and as though

that which she had to say ought only to be heard by the angels, she

became anxious and looked around her. But the slumber which reigned in