The Confession of a Child of the Century

by Alfred de Musset

The pulsation of the blood in the arteries is a sort of clock, the ticking of which can be heard only at night. Man, abandoned by exterior objects, falls back upon himself; he hears himself live. In spite of my fatigue I could not close my eyes; those of Marco were fixed on me; we looked at each other in silence, gently, so to speak.

"What are you doing there?" she asked.

She heaved a gentle sigh that was almost a plaint. I turned my head and saw that first gleams of morning light were shining through the window.

I arose and opened the window; a bright light penetrated every corner of the room. The sky was clear.

I motioned to her to wait. Considerations of prudence had led her to choose an apartment some distance from the center of the city; perhaps she had other quarters, for she sometimes received a number of visitors. Her lover's friends sometimes visited her, and this room was doubtless only a petite maison; it overlooked the Luxembourg, the garden of which extended as far as my eye could reach.

As a cork held under water seems restless under the hand which holds it, and slips through the fingers to rise to the surface, thus there stirred in me a sentiment that I could neither overcome nor escape. The garden of the Luxembourg made my heart leap and banished every other thought. How many times had I stretched out on one of those little mounds, a sort sylvan school, while I read in the cool shade some book filled with foolish poetry! For such, alas! were the debauches of my childhood. I saw many souvenirs of the past among those leafless trees and faded lawns. There, when ten years of age, I had walked with my brother and my tutor, throwing bits of bread to some of the poor benumbed birds; there, seated under a tree, I had watched a group of little girls as they danced; I felt my heart beat in unison with the refrain of their childish song; there, returning from school, I had followed a thousand times the same path, lost in contemplation of some verse of Virgil and kicking the pebbles at my feet. "Oh! my childhood! You are there!" I cried. "O, Heaven! now I am here."

I turned around. Marco was asleep, the lamp had gone out, the light of day had changed the aspect of the room; the hangings, which had at first appeared blue, were now a faded yellow, and Marco, the beautiful statue, was livid as death.

I shuddered in spite of myself; I looked at the alcove, then at the garden; my head became drowsy and fell on my breast. I sat down before an open secretary near one of the windows. A piece of paper caught my eye; it was an open letter, and I looked at it mechanically. I read it several times before I thought what I was doing. Suddenly a gleam of intelligence came to me, although I could not understand everything. I picked up the paper and read what follows, written in an unskilled hand and filled with errors in spelling:

"She died yesterday. She began to fail at twelve, the night before. She called me and said: 'Louison, I am going to join my companion; go to the closet and take down the cloth that hangs on a nail; it is the mate of the other.' I fell on my knees and wept, but she took my hand and said: 'Do not weep, do not weep!' And she heaved such a sigh—"

The rest was torn. I can not describe the impression, that sad letter made on me; I turned it over and saw on the other side Marco's address and the date, that of the evening previous.