The Confession of a Child of the Century

by Alfred de Musset

But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. I could understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that she could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman who was forced to it by neither duty nor interest could lie to one man when she loved another. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could be possible.

"If I were her husband," I said, "or if I supported her I could easily understand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longer loves me, why deceive me?"

I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a child then, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I have loved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her I confessed it to her with the same sincerity, having always thought that in matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was no crime but falsehood.

To all this Desgenais replied:

"She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again."

I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, not even to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised all that with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exact such a promise.

Nevertheless the first thing I did when I was able to leave my room was to visit my mistress. I found her alone, seated in the corner of the room with an expression of sorrow on her face and an appearance of general disorder in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with violent reproaches; I was intoxicated with despair. In a paroxysm of grief I fell on the bed and gave free course to my tears.

"Ah! faithless one! wretch!" I cried between my sobs, "you knew that it would kill me. Did the prospect please you? What have I done to you?"

She threw her arms around my neck, saying that she had been seduced, that my rival had intoxicated her at that fatal supper, but that she had never been his; that she had abandoned herself in a moment of forgetfulness; that she had committed a fault but not a crime; but that if I would not pardon her, she, too, would die. All that sincere repentance has of tears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she exhausted to console me; pale and distressed, her dress deranged and her hair falling over her shoulders she kneeled in the middle of her chamber; never have I seen anything so beautiful and I shuddered with horror as my senses revolted at the sight.

I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct my tottering steps. I wished never to see her again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned. I do not know what desperate resolve I had formed; I experienced a dull desire to possess her once more, to drain the cup of tears and bitterness to the dregs and then to die with her. In short, I abhorred her and I idolized her; I felt that her love was my ruin, but that to live without her was impossible. I mounted the stairs like a flash; I spoke to none of the servants, but, familiar with the house, opened the door of her chamber.