The Confession of a Child of the Century

by Alfred de Musset

There was in my heart a secret cause of sorrow which I would not confess. If that young man had arrived at the time of our greatest happiness, had he brought an insignificant letter to Brigitte, had he pressed her hand while assisting her into the carriage, would I have paid the least attention to it? Had he recognized me at the opera or had he not, had he shed tears for some unknown reason, what would it matter so long as I was happy? But, while unable to divine the cause of Brigitte's sorrow, I saw that my past conduct, whatever she might say of it, had something to do with her present state. If I had been what I ought to have been for the last six months that we had lived together, nothing in the world, I was persuaded, could have troubled our love. Smith was only an ordinary man, but he was good and devoted, his simple and modest qualities resembled the large, pure lines which the eye seized at the first glance; one became acquainted with him in a quarter of an hour, and he inspired confidence if not admiration. I could not help thinking that if he were Brigitte's lover, she would cheerfully go with him to the ends of the earth.

I had deferred our departure purposely, but now I began to regret it.
Brigitte, too, at times urged me to hasten the day.

"Why do we wait?" she asked. "Here I am recovered and everything is ready."

Why did we wait, indeed? I do not know. Seated near the fire, my eyes wandered from Smith to my mistress. I saw that they were both pale, serious, silent. I did not know why they were thus, and I could not help repeating that there was but one cause, but one secret to learn; but that was not one of those vague, sickly suspicions, such as had formerly tormented me, but an instinct, persistent and fatal. What strange creatures we! It pleased me to leave them alone before the fire and to go out on the quay to dream, leaning on the parapet and looking at the water. When they spoke of their life at N——-, and when Brigitte, almost cheerful, assumed a motherly air to recall some incident of their childhood days, it seemed to me that I suffered, and yet took pleasure in it. I asked questions; I spoke to Smith of his mother, of his plans and his prospects. I gave him an opportunity to show himself in a favorable light and forced his modesty to reveal his merit.

"You love your sister very much, do you not?" I asked. "When do you expect her to marry?"

He blushed and replied that his expenses were rather heavy but that it would probably be within two years, perhaps sooner, if his health would permit him to do some extra work which would bring in enough to provide her dowry; that there was a family in the country, whose eldest son was her friend; that they were almost agreed on it, and that fortune would one day come, like rest, without thinking of it; that he had set aside for his sister, a part of the money left by their father; that their mother was opposed to it but that he would insist on it; that a young man may live from hand to mouth, but that the fate of a young girl is fixed on the day of her marriage. Thus, little by little, he expressed what was in his heart, and I watched Brigitte listening to him. Then, when he arose to leave us, I accompanied him to the door and stood there; pensively listening to the sound of his footsteps on the stairs.

Upon examining our trunks, we found that there were still a few things needed before we could start; Smith was asked to purchase them. He was remarkably active and enjoyed attending to matters of this kind. When I returned to my apartments, I found him on the floor, strapping a trunk. Brigitte was at the piano we had rented by the week during our stay. She was playing one of those old airs, into which she put so much expression and which were so dear to us. I stopped in the hall; every note reached my ear distinctly; never had she sung so sadly, so divinely.

Smith was listening with pleasure; he was on his knees holding the buckle of the strap in his hands. He fastened it, then looked about the room at the other goods he had packed and covered with a linen cloth. Satisfied with his work, he still remained kneeling in the same spot; Brigitte, her hands on the keys, was looking out at the horizon. For the second time, I saw tears fall from the young man's eyes; I was ready to shed tears myself, and not knowing what was passing in me, I held out my hand to him.

"Were you there?" asked Brigitte. She trembled and seemed surprised.

"Yes, I was there," I replied. "Sing, my dear, I beg of you. Let me hear your sweet voice."