The Confession of a Child of the Century

by Alfred de Musset

My desire to speak to him had been too evident to admit of any other explanation than deliberate intention to avoid me on his part. He surely knew my face, and whether he knew it or not, a man who sees another approaching him, ought, at least, to wait for him. We were the only ones in the corridor at the time and there could be no doubt he did not wish to speak to me. I did not dream of such impertinent treatment from a man, whom I had cordially received at my apartments; why should he insult me? He could have no other excuse than a desire to avoid an awkward interview, during which questions might be asked, which he did not care to answer. But why? This second mystery troubled me almost as much as the first. Although I tried to drive the thought from my head, that young man's action in avoiding me seemed to have some connection with Brigitte's obstinate silence.

Uncertainty is of all torments, the most difficult to endure, and during my life I have exposed myself to many dangers because I could not wait patiently. When I returned to my apartments, I found Brigitte reading those same fateful letters from N——-. I told her that I could not remain longer in suspense, and that I wished to be relieved from it at any cost; that I desired to know the cause of the sudden, change which had taken place in her, and that if she refused to speak I would look upon her silence as a positive refusal to go abroad with me and an order for me to leave her forever.

She reluctantly handed me the letters she was reading. Her relatives had written her that her departure had disgraced them, that every one knew the circumstances, and that they felt it their duty to warn her of the consequences; that she was living openly as my mistress, and that, although she was a widow and free to do as she chose, she ought to think of the name she bore; that neither they nor her old friends would ever see her again if she persisted in her course; finally, by all sorts of threats and entreaties, they urged her to return.

The tone of that letter angered me, and at first I took it as an insult.

"And that young man who brings you these remonstrances," I cried, "doubtless has orders to deliver them personally, and does not fail to do his own part to the best of his ability. Am I not right?"

Brigitte's dejection made me reflect and calm my wrath.

"You will do as you wish, and achieve my ruin," she said. "My fate rests with you, you have been for a long time my master. Avenge as you please the last effort my old friends have made to recall me to reason, to the world that I formerly respected, to the honor that I have lost. I have not a word to say, and if you wish to dictate my reply, I will obey you."

"I care to know nothing," I replied, "but your intentions; it is for me to comply with your wishes, and I assure you I am ready to do it. Tell me, do you desire to remain, to go away, or shall I go alone?"

"Why that question?" asked Brigitte; "have I said that I had changed my mind? I am unwell and can not travel in my present condition, but when I recover we will go to Geneva as we have planned."

We separated at these words, and the coldness with which she had expressed her resolution saddened me more than a refusal. It was not the first time our liaison had been threatened by her relatives; but up to this time, whatever letters Brigitte, had received she had never taken so much to heart. How could I bring myself to believe that Brigitte had been so affected by protests which, in less happy moments, had had no effect on her? Could it be merely the weakness of a woman who recoils from an act of final significance? I will do as you please, she had said. No, it does not please me to demand patience, and rather than look at that sorrowful face even a week longer, unless she speaks, I will set out alone.