The Confession of a Child of the Century - Complete

an, when the storm has passed, counts the sheaves that remain in

for us to do but to say adieu. Whatever courage Brigitte had shown, she had drunk to the dregs the bitter cup of her sad love; unless I wished to see her die, I must give her repose. She had often addressed cruel reproaches to me,

more, was conclusive evidence; this sudden silence, the tenderness she had shown in the final moments, that pale face, and that kiss, confirmed me in the belief that all was over, and that I had broken forever whatev

p; I watched its feeble flame and my thoughts seeme

long as I knew that she loved me, I was sure of loving her; stern necessity had just arisen between us for the first time. I experienced a dull languor and could distinguish nothing clearly. What my mind understood, my soul recoiled from acceptin

his connection with the affair; I could not say who had led me there, or what I had done during the last hour. I looked a

ath comes; the man, at its approach, shudders with horror and falls as though struck by a thunderbolt. Thus, apparently calm, I awaited the coming of misfortune; I repeated in a low voice what Brigitte had said, and I placed near her all that I supposed she would need for the night; then I looked at her, then went to the window and pressed

o the point of breaking. In an instant two years of suffering again racked my breast, and after them as their consequence and as their last expression, the present seized

What! you, my life, my adored mistress, you flee me, I shall never see you more? Never! never!" I said aloud; and, addressing myself to the slumbering Brigitte as if she could hear me, I added: "Never, never; do not think of it; I will never consent to it. An

me instrument of death. At last I fell on my knees and beat my head against

row," I said to myself; "I

more calm and less bitter tears began to course gently down my cheeks. Tenderness succeeded fury. I leaned over Brigitte a

sted on a hand that was spare and feeble; her brow seemed to bear the marks of that crown of thorns which is the diadem of resignation. I thought of the cottage. How young she wa

lta gier

rossa com'

. Non son

tis dal

med by a grief that is not shared with another. The evils you endure others have suffered, and nothing is singular or peculiar to you. Think of th

r six months thy mouth has not spoken, thy heart has not beat, without a responsive word and heart-beat from her; and that woman, whom God has sent thee as He sends the rose to the field, is about to glide from thy heart. While rejoicing in eac

mounted and became more somb

ess destiny was dragging swiftly toward the abyss and whom a secret horror unceasingly warned of the awful fate to come! I, who, if I had shed blood with these hands, could yet repe

d at that moment the proof before my eyes. The man who had loved Brigitte, who had offended her, then insulted her, then abandoned her only

that creature who appeared before me bearing my features? Who was that pitiless man who blasphemed with my mouth and tortured with my hands? Was it he whom my mother called Octave? Was it he who, at fifteen,

t do that. These things

m gate, to whom I was sometimes sent with the remains of our morning meal. Holding out his feeble, wrinkled hands he would bless me as he smiled upon me. I felt the mornin

t, is it not because it feels the approach of death? O wretch! those far-off voices that you hear groaning in your heart, do you think they are sobs? They are perhaps only the cry of the sea-mew, that funereal bird of the tempest, whose presence portends shipwreck. Who has ever told the story of the childh

ill engrave on your sword the prattle of Plato! Into the heart of the being who opens her arms to you, you will plunge that blood-stained but repentant arm; you will follow to the cemetery the victim of your passion, and you will plant on her grave the sterile flower of your pity. You will say to those who see you 'What cou

r route. If Brigitte dies to-morrow you will weep on her tomb; where will you go when you leave her? You will go away for three months perhaps, and you will travel in Italy; you will wrap y

story, a confused memory, may it not happen some night of debauchery that you will overturn your chair and recount, with a smile on your lips, what you wi

while a woman you love lies there dying on that bed, and while you have a horror of yourself, strike the decisive blow; she still lives; that is enough; do not attend her funeral obsequies for fear that on the morrow you will not be co

lose her; it is less what has been than what might have been. When the hands of the clock indicated such and such an hour, you might have been happy. If you suffer why do you not open your heart? If you love, why do you

you continue to amuse yourself with it, forgetting how many prayers it has cost your good angel to preserve for you that shadow of daylight! Ah! if there is in heaven one who watches over you, what is he doing at this moment? He is seated before an organ; his

, you saw a better time shining in the future; when your life, consecrated to the object of your adoration, gave promise of new strength, at that moment the abyss yawns before you! You no longer experience vague de

n you, but kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if you remember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you must choose between your soul and your body; you must kill

ul state of despair that my reason fled and I no longer

grief or despair? I do not know. Sud

nto dust in a ditch! How long will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? How many tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks to her but will say that my death was a good thing, who will not hasten to console her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they will seek to distrac

le, who will not congratulate her on her recovery? When, after eight days of silence, she consents to hear my name pronounced in her presence, then she will speak of it herself as if to say: 'Console me;' then little by little she will no longer refuse to think of t

o more! And why should that astonish you? You are a woman; that body, that spotless bosom, you know what they are worth; when you conceal them under your dress you do not believe, as do the virgins, that all are alike, and you know the price of your modesty. How can a woman who has been praised resolve to be praised no more? Does she think she is l

dead for burial? Her tears for the second will not flow as long as those shed for the first. Ah! God forgive me! While she sleeps why should I not kill her? If I should awaken h

on the table and

er in the cemetery has seen Death leave his tomb and hold consultation with a priest? In olden times there were phantoms; they are interdicted by the police in civilized cities, and no cries are now heard issui

either of us will hear. In to-morrow's journal would appear the intelligence that Octave de T---had killed his mistress, and the day after no one would speak of it. Who would follow us to the gra

s will embrace in peace and without pride, for death is solace, and that which binds does not also separate. Why should annihilation frighten thee, poor body, destined to corruption? Every hour that strikes drags thee on to

the physicists, we are told, grind to infinity the smallest speck of dust without being able to annihilate it. If matter is the property of chance, what harm can it do to change its form since it can not cease to be matter? Why should God care what form I ha

reproach do me? What stern judge will tell me th

they be spared? Who will be instructed by the lessons which are taught after death? Must heaven be a desert in order that man may be punished for having lived? Is i

work of man's hands rising, the grass growing; looking upon the planting of the seed and the fall of the thunderbolt; beholding man walking about upon his earth until he meets the beckoning finger of death; counting tears and

rments it-and consumes it in endless desire-every planet that carries its load of misery and groans on its axle-calls to each other across the abyss, and each wonders which will stop first. God controls them; they accomplish assiduously and eternally their appointed and useless task; they whirl about, they suffer, they burn, they become extin

eeps step with the celestial music along the pitiless paths of life; and all for nothing! And we, poor nameless dreams, pale and sorrowful apparitions, helpless ephemera, we who are animated by

ould return again; we have written and revised the laws both human and divine, and we are afraid of our catechisms; we suffer thirty years without murmuring and imagine t

onger master of myself, and in my delirious condition I know not what might have happened; I threw ba

ttle crucifix on her deathbed. I did not remember ever having seen it before; doubtless, at the moment of setting out, she had susp

in trembling tones, "Lor

without form, without a cult, and without revelation. Poisoned, from youth, by all the writings of the last century, I had sucked, at an early hour, the sterile milk of impiety. Human pride, that God of the egoist, closed my mouth against

ece of black wood? I could have thrown it into the fire, but it was my weapon I threw there. Ah! what an experience that was and still is for my soul! What miserable w

a stream that overflowed its banks. Repentance is a pure incense; it exhaled from all my suffering. Although I had almost committed a crime when my hand was arrested

ne; I swear by the faith you profess I will not kill either you or myself! I am a fool, a madman, a child who thinks himself a man. God be praised! You are young and beautiful. You live and you will forge

d in Thy temples, but I thank heaven that where I find Thee, I tremble and bow in reverence. I have at least kissed with my lips a heart that is full of Thee. Protect that heart so long as life lasts; dwell within i

think they have no need of Thee! Pardon them. Although their pride may outrage Thee, they will be, sooner or later, baptized in tears; grant that they may cease to believe in any other shelter from the tempest than Thy love, and spare them the s

row is an instrument of torture by which Thou hast mounted to the very throne of God, Thy Father, and it is sorrow that leads us to Thee with our crown of th

austed, I was about to leave Brigitte, and seek a little repose. As I was passing out of the room, a dress thrown on a chair slipped to the floor near me, and in i

cembe

s letter I shall be f

e you again. My destin

ave sacrificed everyt

going to try to die

and p

d it, and saw that it was addressed to

tore where they chose two similar rings which they smilingly exchanged. After a short walk they took breakfast at the Freres-Provencaux, in one of those litt

d, as true happiness always is. The experienced would have recognized in him the youth who merges into manhood. From time to time he looked up at the sky, then at his companion, and tears glittered in his eyes, but he heeded

nce. In her languor could be clearly distinguished that gentleness of soul, that lethargy of the weaker of two beings who love, one of whom exists only in the other and responds

most happy of living creatures, and the next moment the most unhappy; but, although ignorant of their secret, one would have felt that they were suffering together, and, whatever their mysterious trouble, it could be seen that they had placed on their sorrow a seal more powerful than love itself-friendship.

e you sure

much, a long time, perhaps forever; but we wi

he woman, "are you sure you

t I believe that we can forgive, and that is w

t again? Why not some

added, wi

each other w

ath you be worthy of you! Smith is brave, good, and honest, but however much you may love him, you see very w

e," replie

g into her eyes with all his soul. "Is it tr

continue

erturn the head, the senses, the mind, the heart; there is among them all but one that does

will writ

t us not go into the past. Little by little my letters will become less frequent until they cease altogether. I shall thus descend the hill that I have been climbing for the past year. When one stands before

wept with her, but he did not move and seemed anxious to appear unconscious of her emoti

e truly. Another will be considerate of those feelings that I offend, he will surround you with his love; you will have a better lover, you will not have a better brother. Give me your hand and let the world laugh at a sentence that it does not understand: Let us be

r with a strange smile on her face, she cut from her head a long tress of hair; then she looked a

to go; when they passed out they s

ful sun!" said

id Brigitte, "the memory

ay and disappear

pant; he looked for the last time upon his native town as it disappeared in the distance, and thanked God

ITOR'S B

rks in the knowledge

o call its d

on, I love

phy is akin

life, it is th

sure of itself

you fondly imagine

, and you will

y own sorrow in m

ust, it is an

ne preven

e, that neg

se proud disd

desired than a liv

k of life, or the wh

hey have invent

what the other

stroys his

that mistres

sions are no l

earth, crying: "Nev

succeeded each oth

her accuse nor bla

for her but a m

s of bei

beautiful woman is sh

only in

e to be loved who s

ness seeks

and separated from y

her, I can no

eing worse tha

ove nor est

either to boas

ch the Greek clerg

do you

solace grief and

dwarf or

enough to

that you must

ur virtue in which

shes to make her w

hing: the young me

her highly enough t

of love, the most

on does

I myself mistook f

to speak, less sad th

e Memoirs

eration in order

faith he has lost

ys the same: the f

ed to hope

seem to enj

r love, she said,

Augu

d yet took p

that are ev

deserve them, bu

wo differen

ur arteries) can be

cried, "you will ne

celebrated, and it

r love is nothin

ll ever express th

an, reason follows h

t tears can wash awa

ce as if to prevent

is said here below a

iness as a child p

e leaves of

t weapon

of the world fro