第 66 页

thick fleece of white hair and his black moustaches, which gave his

countenance such an expression of energetic youth. But it was all over,

the irreparable had swept by, and utterly changed their lives.

"Marie," he nobly said, "you do not love me, I give you back your

promise."

But with equal nobility she refused to take it back. "Never will I do

so," she replied. "I gave it to you frankly, freely and joyfully, and my

affection and admiration for you have never changed."

Nevertheless, with more firmness in his hitherto broken voice, Guillaume

retorted: "You love Pierre, and it is Pierre whom you ought to marry."

"No," she again insisted, "I belong to you. A tie which years have

tightened cannot be undone in an hour. Once again, if I love Pierre I

swear to you that I was ignorant of it this morning. And let us leave the

matter as it is; do not torture me any more, it would be too cruel of

you."

Then, quivering like a woman who suddenly perceives that she is bare, in

a stranger's presence, she hastily pulled down her sleeves, and even drew

them over her hands as if to leave naught of her person visible. And

afterwards she rose and walked away without adding a single word.

Guillaume remained alone on the bench in that leafy corner, in front of

Paris, to which the light morning sunshine lent the aspect of some

quivering, soaring city of dreamland. A great weight oppressed him, and

it seemed to him as if he would never be able to rise from the seat. That

which brought him most suffering was Marie's assurance that she had till

that morning been ignorant of the fact that she was in love with Pierre.

She had been ignorant of it, and it was he, Guillaume, who had brought it

to her knowledge, compelled her to confess it! He had now firmly planted

it in her heart, and perhaps increased it by revealing it to her. Ah! how

cruel the thought--to be the artisan of one's own torment! Of one thing

he was now quite certain: there would be no more love in his life. At the

idea of this, his poor, loving heart sank and bled. And yet amidst the

disaster, amidst his grief at realising that he was an old man, and that

renunciation was imperative, he experienced a bitter joy at having

brought the truth to light. This was very harsh consolation, fit only for

one of heroic soul, yet he found lofty satisfaction in it, and from that

moment the thought of sacrifice imposed itself upon him with

extraordinary force. He must marry his children; there lay the path of

duty, the only wise and just course, the only certain means of ensuring

the happiness of the household. And when his revolting heart yet leapt

and shrieked with anguish, he carried his vigorous hands to his chest in

order to still it.

On the morrow came the supreme explanation between Guillaume and Pierre,

not in the little garden, however, but in the spacious workroom. And here

again one beheld the vast panorama of Paris, a nation as it were at work,

a huge vat in which the wine of the future was fermenting. Guillaume had

arranged things so that he might be alone with his brother; and no sooner

had the latter entered than he attacked him, going straight to the point

without any of the precautions which he had previously taken with Marie.

"Haven't you something to say to me, Pierre?" he inquired. "Why won't you

confide in me?"

The other immediately understood him, and began to tremble, unable to

find a word, but confessing everything by the distracted, entreating

expression of his face.

"You love Marie," continued Guillaume, "why did you not loyally come and

tell me of your love?"

At this Pierre recovered self-possession and defended himself vehemently:

"I love Marie, it's true, and I felt that I could not conceal it, that

you yourself would notice it at last. But there was no occasion for me to

tell you of it, for I was sure of myself, and would have fled rather than

have allowed a single word to cross my lips. I suffered in silence and

alone, and you cannot know how great my torture was! It is even cruel on

your part to speak to me of it; for now I am absolutely compelled to

leave you.... I have already, on several occasions, thought of doing

so. If I have come back here, it was doubtless through weakness, but also

on account of my affection for you all. And what mattered my presence

here? Marie ran no risk. She does not love me."

"She does love you!" Guillaume answered. "I questioned her yesterday, and

she had to confess that she loved you."

At this Pierre, utterly distracted, caught Guillaume by the shoulders and

gazed into his eyes. "Oh! brother, brother! what is this you say? Why say

a thing which would mean terrible misfortune for us all? Even if it were

true, my grief would far exceed my joy, for I will not have you suffer.

Marie belongs to you. To me she is as sacred as a sister. And if there be

only my madness to part you, it will pass by, I shall know how to conquer

it."

"Marie loves you," repeated Guillaume in his gentle, obstinate way. "I

don't reproach you with anything. I well know that you have struggled,

and have never betrayed yourself to her either by word or glance.

Yesterday she herself was still ignorant that she loved you, and I had to

open her eyes.... What would you have? I simply state a fact: she

loves you."

This time Pierre, still quivering, made a gesture of mingled rapture and

terror, as if some divine and long-desired blessing were falling upon him

from heaven and crushing him beneath its weight.

"Well, then," he said, after a brief pause, "it is all over.... Let us

kiss one another for the last time, and then I'll go."

"Go? Why? You must stay with us. Nothing could be more simple: you love

Marie and she loves you. I give her to you."

A loud cry came from Pierre, who wildly raised his hands again with a

gesture of fright and rapture. "You give me Marie?" he replied. "You, who

adore her, who have been waiting for her for months? No, no, it would

overcome me, it would terrify me, as if you gave me your very heart after

tearing it from your breast. No, no! I will not accept your sacrifice!"

"But as it is only gratitude and affection that Marie feels for me," said

Guillaume, "as it is you whom she really loves, am I to take a mean

advantage of the engagements which she entered into unconsciously, and

force her to a marriage when I know that she would never be wholly mine?

Besides, I have made a mistake, it isn't I who give her to you, she has

already given herself, and I do not consider that I have any right to

prevent her from doing so."

"No, no! I will never accept, I will never bring such grief upon you...

Kiss me, brother, and let me go."

Thereupon Guillaume caught hold of Pierre and compelled him to sit down

by his side on an old sofa near the window. And he began to scold him

almost angrily while still retaining a smile, in which suffering and

kindliness were blended. "Come," said he, "we are surely not going to

fight over it. You won't force me to tie you up so as to keep you here? I

know what I'm about. I thought it all over before I spoke to you. No

doubt, I can't tell you that it gladdens me. I thought at first that I

was going to die; I should have liked to hide myself in the very depths

of the earth. And then, well, it was necessary to be reasonable, and I

understood that things had arranged themselves for the best, in their

natural order."

Pierre, unable to resist any further, had begun to weep with both hands

raised to his face.

"Don't grieve, brother, either for yourself or for me," said Guillaume.

"Do you remember the happy days we lately spent together at Neuilly after

we had found one another again? All our old affection revived within us,

and we remained for hours, hand in hand, recalling the past and loving

one another. And what a terrible confession you made to me one night, the

confession of your loss of faith, your torture, the void in which you

were rolling! When I heard of it my one great wish was to cure you. I

advised you to work, love, and believe in life, convinced as I was that

life alone could restore you to peace and health.... And for that

reason I afterwards brought you here. You fought against it, and it was I

who forced you to come. I was so happy when I found that you again took

an interest in life, and had once more become a man and a worker! I would

have given some of my blood if necessary to complete your cure....

Well, it's done now, I have given you all I had, since Marie herself has

become necessary to you, and she alone can save you."

Then as Pierre again attempted to protest, he resumed: "Don't deny it. It

is so true indeed, that if she does not complete the work I have begun,

all my efforts will have been vain, you will fall back into your misery

and negation, into all the torments of a spoilt life. She is necessary to

you, I say. And do you think that I no longer know how to love you? Would

you have me refuse you the very breath of life that will truly make you a

man, after all my fervent wishes for your return to life? I have enough

affection for you both to consent to your loving one another....

Besides, I repeat it, nature knows what she does. Instinct is a sure

guide, it always tends to what is useful and trite. I should have been a

sorry husband, and it is best that I should keep to my work as an old

_savant_; whereas you are young and represent the future, all fruitful

and happy life."

Pierre shuddered as he heard this, for his old fears returned to him. Had

not the priesthood for ever cut him off from life, had not his long years

of chaste celibacy robbed him of his manhood? "Fruitful and happy life!"

he muttered, "ah! if you only knew how distressed I feel at the idea that

I do not perhaps deserve the gift you so lovingly offer me! You are worth

more than I am; you would have given her a larger heart, a firmer brain,

and perhaps, too, you are really a younger man than myself.... There

is still time, brother, keep her, if with you she is likely to be happier

and more truly and completely loved. For my part I am full of doubts. Her

happiness is the only thing of consequence. Let her belong to the one who

will love her best!"

Indescribable emotion had now come over both men. As Guillaume heard his

brother's broken words, the cry of a love that trembled at the thought of

possible weakness, he did for a moment waver. With a dreadful heart-pang

he stammered despairingly: "Ah! Marie, whom I love so much! Marie, whom I

would have rendered so happy!"

At this Pierre could not restrain himself; he rose and cried: "Ah! you

see that you love her still and cannot renounce her.... So let me go!

let me go!"

But Guillaume had already caught him around the body, clasping him with

an intensity of brotherly love which was increased by the renunciation he

was resolved upon: "Stay!" said he. "It wasn't I that spoke, it was the

other man that was in me, he who is about to die, who is already dead! By

the memory of our mother and our father I swear to you that the sacrifice

is consummated, and that if you two refuse to accept happiness from me

you will but make me suffer."

For a moment the weeping men remained in one another's arms. They had

often embraced before, but never had their hearts met and mingled as they

did now. It was a delightful moment, which seemed an eternity. All the

grief and misery of the world had disappeared from before them; there

remained naught save their glowing love, whence sprang an eternity of

love even as light comes from the sun. And that moment was compensation

for all their past and future tears, whilst yonder, on the horizon before

them, Paris still spread and rumbled, ever preparing the unknown future.

Just then Marie herself came in. And the rest proved very simple.

Guillaume freed himself from his brother's clasp, led him forward and

compelled him and Marie to take each other by the hand. At first she made

yet another gesture of refusal in her stubborn resolve that she would not

take her promise back. But what could she say face to face with those two

tearful men, whom she had found in one another's arms, mingling together

in such close brotherliness? Did not those tears and that embrace sweep

away all ordinary reasons, all such arguments as she held in reserve?

Even the embarrassment of the situation disappeared, it seemed as if she

had already had a long explanation with Pierre, and that he and she were

of one mind to accept that gift of love which Guillaume offered them with

so much heroism. A gust of the sublime passed through the room, and

nothing could have appeared more natural to them than this extraordinary

scene. Nevertheless, Marie remained silent, she dared not give her

answer, but looked at them both with her big soft eyes, which, like their

own, were full of tears.

And it was Guillaume who, with sudden inspiration, ran to the little

staircase conducting to the rooms overhead, and called: "Mere-Grand!

Mere-Grand! Come down at once, you are wanted."

Then, as soon as she was there, looking slim and pale in her black gown,

and showing the wise air of a queen-mother whom all obeyed, he said:

"Tell these two children that they can do nothing better than marry one

another. Tell them that we have talked it over, you and I, and that it is

your desire, your will that they should do so."

She quietly nodded her assent, and then said: "That is true, it will be

by far the most sensible course."

Thereupon Marie flung herself into her arms, consenting, yielding to the

superior forces, the powers of life, that had thus changed the course of

her existence. Guillaume immediately desired that the date of the wedding

should be fixed, and accommodation provided for the young couple in the