第 65 页

on the side of whatever might be good, natural, and necessary. But she

seemed to be urging him to some lofty heroism; and indeed what she had

said threw a ray of light upon the unrest which had come to him in

connection with his old plan of going to confide his secret to some

Minister of War or other, whatever one might happen to be in office at

the time. Growing hesitation and repugnance stirred him as he fancied he

could again hear her saying that perhaps there might be some better

course, that would require search and reflection. But all at once a

vision of Marie rose before him, and his heart was rent by the thought

that he was asked to renounce her. To lose her, to give her to another!

No, no, that was beyond his strength. He would never have the frightful

courage that was needed to pass by the last promised raptures of love

with disdain!

For a couple of days Guillaume struggled on. He seemed to be again living

the six years which the young woman had already spent beside him in that

happy little house. She had been at first like an adopted daughter there;

and later on, when the idea of their marriage had sprung up, he had

viewed it with quiet delight in the hope that it would ensure the

happiness of all around him. If he had previously abstained from marrying

again it was from the fear of placing a strange mother over his children;

and if he yielded to the charm of loving yet once more, and no longer

leading a solitary life, it was because he had found at his very hearth

one of such sensible views, who, in the flower of youth, was willing to

become his wife despite the difference in their ages. Then months had

gone by, and serious occurrences had compelled them to postpone the

wedding, though without undue suffering on his part. Indeed, the

certainty that she was waiting for him had sufficed him, for his life of

hard work had rendered him patient. Now, however, all at once, at the

threat of losing her, his hitherto tranquil heart ached and bled. He

would never have thought the tie so close a one. But he was now almost

fifty, and it was as if love and woman were being wrenched away from him,

the last woman that he could love and desire, one too who was the more

desirable, as she was the incarnation of youth from which he must ever be

severed, should he indeed lose her. Passionate desire, mingled with rage,

flared up within him at the thought that someone should have come to take

her from him.

One night, alone in his room, he suffered perfect martyrdom. In order

that he might not rouse the house he buried his face in his pillow so as

to stifle his sobs. After all, it was a simple matter; Marie had given

him her promise, and he would compel her to keep it. She would be his,

and his alone, and none would be able to steal her from him. Then,

however, there rose before him a vision of his brother, the

long-forgotten one, whom, from feelings of affection, he had compelled to

join his family. But his sufferings were now so acute that he would have

driven that brother away had he been before him. He was enraged,

maddened, by the thought of him. His brother--his little brother! So all

their love was over; hatred and violence were about to poison their

lives. For hours Guillaume continued complaining deliriously, and seeking

how he might so rid himself of Pierre that what had happened should be

blotted out. Now and again, when he recovered self-control, he marvelled

at the tempest within him; for was he not a _savant_ guided by lofty

reason, a toiler to whom long experience had brought serenity? But the

truth was that this tempest had not sprung up in his mind, it was raging

in the child-like soul that he had retained, the nook of affection and

dreaminess which remained within him side by side with his principles of

pitiless logic and his belief in proven phenomena only. His very genius

came from the duality of his nature: behind the chemist was a social

dreamer, hungering for justice and capable of the greatest love. And now

passion was transporting him, and he was weeping for the loss of Marie as

he would have wept over the downfall of that dream of his, the

destruction of war _by_ war, that scheme for the salvation of mankind at

which he had been working for ten years past.

At last, amidst his weariness, a sudden resolution calmed him. He began

to feel ashamed of despairing in this wise when he had no certain grounds

to go upon. He must know everything, he would question the young woman;

she was loyal enough to answer him frankly. Was not this a solution

worthy of them both? An explanation in all sincerity, after which they

would be able to take a decision. Then he fell asleep; and, tired though

he felt when he rose in the morning, he was calmer. It was as if some

secret work had gone on in his heart during his few hours of repose after

that terrible storm.

As it happened Marie was very gay that morning. On the previous day she

had gone with Pierre and Antoine on a cycling excursion over frightful

roads in the direction of Montmorency, whence they had returned in a

state of mingled anger and delight. When Guillaume stopped her in the

little garden, he found her humming a song while returning bare-armed

from the scullery, where some washing was going on.

"Do you want to speak to me?" she asked.

"Yes, my dear child, it's necessary for us to talk of some serious

matters."

She at once understood that their marriage was in question, and became

grave. She had formerly consented to that marriage because she regarded

it as the only sensible course she could take, and this with full

knowledge of the duties which she would assume. No doubt her husband

would be some twenty years older than herself, but this circumstance was

one of somewhat frequent occurrence, and as a rule such marriages turned

out well, rather than otherwise. Moreover, she was in love with nobody,

and was free to consent. And she had consented with an impulse of

gratitude and affection which seemed so sweet that she thought it the

sweetness of love itself. Everybody around her, too, appeared so pleased

at the prospect of this marriage, which would draw the family yet more

closely together. And, on her side, she had been as it were intoxicated

by the idea of making others happy.

"What is the matter?" she now asked Guillaume in a somewhat anxious

voice. "No bad news, I hope?"

"No, no," he answered. "I've simply something to say to you."

Then he led her under the plum-trees to the only green nook left in the

garden. An old worm-eaten bench still stood there against the

lilac-bushes. And in front of them Paris spread out its sea of roofs,

looking light and fresh in the morning sunlight.

They both sat down. But at the moment of speaking and questioning Marie,

Guillaume experienced sudden embarrassment, while his heart beat

violently at seeing her beside him, so young and adorable with her bare

arms.

"Our wedding-day is drawing near," he ended by saying. And then as she

turned somewhat pale, perhaps unconsciously, he himself suddenly felt

cold. Had not her lips twitched as if with pain? Had not a shadow passed

over her fresh, clear eyes?

"Oh! we still have some time before us," she replied.

Then, slowly and very affectionately, he resumed: "No doubt; still it is

necessary to attend to the formalities. And it is as well, perhaps, that

I should speak of those worries to-day, so that I may not have to bother

you about them again."

Then he gently went on telling her all that would have to be done,

keeping his eyes on her whilst he spoke, watching for such signs of

emotion as the thought of her promise's early fulfilment might bring to

her face. She sat there in silence, with her hands on her lap, and her

features quite still, thus giving no certain sign of any regret or

trouble. Still she seemed rather dejected, compliant, as it were, but in

no wise joyous.

"You say nothing, my dear Marie," Guillaume at last exclaimed. "Does

anything of all this displease you?"

"Displease me? Oh, no!"

"You must speak out frankly, if it does, you know. We will wait a little

longer if you have any personal reasons for wishing to postpone the date

again."

"But I've no reasons, my friend. What reasons could I have? I leave you

quite free to settle everything as you yourself may desire."

Silence fell. While answering, she had looked him frankly in the face;

but a little quiver stirred her lips, and gloom, for which she could not

account, seemed to rise and darken her face, usually as bright and gay as

spring water. In former times would she not have laughed and sung at the

mere announcement of that coming wedding?

Then Guillaume, with an effort which made his voice tremble, dared to

speak out: "You must forgive me for asking you a question, my dear Marie.

There is still time for you to cancel your promise. Are you quite certain

that you love me?"

At this she looked at him in genuine stupefaction, utterly failing to

understand what he could be aiming at. And--as she seemed to be deferring

her reply, he added: "Consult your heart. Is it really your old friend or

is it another that you love?"

"I? I, Guillaume? Why do you say that to me? What can I have done to give

you occasion to say such a thing!"

All her frank nature revolted as she spoke, and her beautiful eyes,

glowing with sincerity, gazed fixedly on his.

"I love Pierre! I do, I?... Well, yes, I love him, as I love you all;

I love him because he has become one of us, because he shares our life

and our joys! I'm happy when he's here, certainly; and I should like him

to be always here. I'm always pleased to see him and hear him and go out

with him. I was very much grieved recently when he seemed to be relapsing

into his gloomy ideas. But all that is natural, is it not? And I think

that I have only done what you desired I should do, and I cannot

understand how my affection for Pierre can in any way exercise an

influence respecting our marriage."

These words, in her estimation, ought to have convinced Guillaume that

she was not in love with his brother; but in lieu thereof they brought

him painful enlightenment by the very ardour with which she denied the

love imputed to her.

"But you unfortunate girl!" he cried. "You are betraying yourself without

knowing it.... It is quite certain you do not love me, you love my

brother!"

He had caught hold of her wrists and was pressing them with despairing

affection as if to compel her to read her heart. And she continued

struggling. A most loving and tragic contest went on between them, he

seeking to convince her by the evidence of facts, and she resisting him,

stubbornly refusing to open her eyes. In vain did he recount what had

happened since the first day, explaining the feelings which had followed

one upon another in her heart and mind: first covert hostility, next

curiosity regarding that extraordinary young priest, and then sympathy

and affection when she had found him so wretched and had gradually cured

him of his sufferings. They were both young and mother Nature had done

the rest. However, at each fresh proof and certainty which he put before

her, Marie only experienced growing emotion, trembling at last from head

to foot, but still unwilling to question herself.

"No, no," said she, "I do not love him. If I loved him I should know it

and would acknowledge it to you; for you are well aware that I cannot

tell an untruth."

Guillaume, however, had the cruelty to insist on the point, like some

heroic surgeon cutting into his own flesh even more than into that of

others, in order that the truth might appear and everyone be saved.

"Marie," said he, "it is not I whom you love. All that you feel for me is

respect and gratitude and daughterly affection. Remember what your

feelings were at the time when our marriage was decided upon. You were

then in love with nobody, and you accepted the offer like a sensible

girl, feeling certain that I should render you happy, and that the union

was a right and satisfactory one.... But since then my brother has

come here; love has sprung up in your heart in quite a natural way; and

it is Pierre, Pierre alone, whom you love as a lover and a husband should

be loved."

Exhausted though she was, utterly distracted, too, by the light which,

despite herself, was dawning within her, Marie still stubbornly and

desperately protested.

"But why do you struggle like this against the truth, my child?" said

Guillaume; "I do not reproach you. It was I who chose that this should

happen, like the old madman I am. What was bound to come has come, and

doubtless it is for the best. I only wanted to learn the truth from you

in order that I might take a decision and act uprightly."

These words vanquished her, and her tears gushed forth. It seemed as

though something had been rent asunder within her; and she felt quite

overcome, as if by the weight of a new truth of which she had hitherto

been ignorant. "Ah! it was cruel of you," she said, "to do me such

violence so as to make me read my heart. I swear to you again that I did

not know I loved Pierre in the way you say. But you have opened my heart,

and roused what was quietly slumbering in it.... And it is true, I do

love Pierre, I love him now as you have said. And so here we are, all

three of us supremely wretched through your doing!"

She sobbed, and with a sudden feeling of modesty freed her wrists from

his grasp. He noticed, however, that no blush rose to her face. Truth to

tell, her virginal loyalty was not in question; she had no cause to

reproach herself with any betrayal; it was he alone, perforce, who had

awakened her to love. For a moment they looked at one another through

their tears: she so strong and healthy, her bosom heaving at each

heart-beat, and her white arms--arms that could both charm and

sustain--bare almost to her shoulders; and he still vigorous, with his