The Confession of a Child of the Century

by Alfred de Musset

When Brigitte spoke thus, I experienced a feeling that resembled avarice;
I caught her in my arms and cried:

"O God! I know not whether it is with joy or with fear that I tremble. I am about to carry off my treasure. Die, my youth, die all memories of the past, die, all cares and regrets! O my good, brave mistress! You have made a man out of a child. If I lose you now, I will never love again. Perhaps, before I knew you, another woman might have cured me; but now you, alone, of all the world, have power to destroy me or to save me, for I bear on my heart the wound of all the evil I have done you. I have been an ingrate, blind and cruel. God be praised! You love me still. If you ever return to that home under whose lindens, where I first met you, look carefully about that deserted house; you will find a fantom there, for the man who left it, and went away with you, is not the man who entered it."

"Is it true?" said Brigitte, and her head, all radiant with love, was raised to heaven; "is it true that I am yours? Yes, far from this odious world in which you have grown old before your time—yes, my child, you are going to love. I will have you, such as you are, and wherever we go you will forget the day when you will no longer love me. My mission will have been accomplished, and I shall always be thankful for it."

Finally, we decided to go to Geneva and then choose some resting-place in the Alps. Brigitte was enthusiastic about the lake; I thought I could already breathe the air which floats over its surface and the odor of the verdure-clad valley; already Lausanne, Vevay, Oberland and beyond the summits of Monte Rosa and the immense plain of Lombardy; already, oblivion, repose, flight, all the delights of happy solitude, invited us; already, when in the evening with joined hands, we looked at one another in silence, we felt rising within us that sentiment of strange grandeur which takes possession of the heart on the eve of a long journey, mysterious and indescribable vertigo, which has in it something of the terrors of exile and the hopes of a pilgrimage. Are there not in the human mind wings that flutter and sonorous chords that vibrate? How shall I describe it? Is there not a world of meaning in the simple words: "All is ready, we are about to go"?

Suddenly, Brigitte became languid; she bowed her head and was silent. When I asked her if she was in pain, she said no, in a voice that was scarcely audible; when I spoke of our departure, she arose, cold and resigned, and continued her preparations; when I swore to her that she was going to be happy and that I would consecrate my life to her, she shut herself up in her room and wept; when I kissed her, she turned pale and averted her eyes as my lips approached hers; when I told her that nothing had yet been done, that it was not too late to renounce our plans, she frowned severely; when I begged her to open her heart to me and I told her I would die rather than cause her one regret, she threw her arms about my neck, then stopped and repulsed me as though involuntarily. Finally, I entered her room holding in my hand a ticket on which our places were marked for the carriage to Besancon. I approached her and placed it in her lap; she stretched out her hand, screamed and fell unconscious at my feet.

CHAPTER II

ALL my efforts to divine the cause of so unexpected a change were as vain as the questions I had first asked. Brigitte was ill and obstinately remained silent. After an entire day passed in supplication and conjecture, I went out without knowing where I was going. Passing the Opera, I entered it from force of habit.

I could pay no attention to what was going on in the theater. I was so overwhelmed with grief, so stupefied, that I did not live, so to speak, except in myself, and exterior objects made no impression on my senses. All my powers were centered on a single thought, and the more I turned it over in my head, the less clearly could I distinguish its meaning. What obstacle was this that had so suddenly come between us and the realization of our fondest hopes? If it was merely some ordinary event, or even an actual misfortune, such as an accident or loss of some friend, why that obstinate silence? After all that Brigitte had done, when our dreams seemed about to be realized, what could be the nature of a secret that destroyed our happiness and could not be confided to me? What! she conceals it from me! And yet I could not find it in my heart to suspect her. The appearance of suspicion revolted me and filled me with horror. On the other hand, how could I conceive of inconstancy or of caprice in that woman such as I knew her? I was lost in the abyss of doubt and I could not discover a gleam of light, the smallest point on which to base conjecture.

In front of me in the gallery, sat a young man whose face was not unknown to me. As often happens when one is preoccupied, I looked at him without thinking of him as a personal identity or trying to fit a name on him. Suddenly, I recognized him: it was he, who had brought letters to Brigitte from N——-. I arose and started to accost him without thinking what I was doing. He occupied a place that I could not reach without disturbing a large number of spectators and I was forced to await the entr'acte.

My first thought was that if any one could enlighten me it was this young man. He had had several interviews with Madame Pierson the last few days, and I recalled the fact that she was always much depressed after his visits. He had seen her the morning of the day she was taken ill. The letters he brought Brigitte had not been shown me; it was possible that he knew the reason why our departure was delayed. Perhaps he did not know all the circumstances, but he could, doubtless, enlighten me as to the contents of those letters, and there was no reason why I should hesitate about questioning him. When the curtain fell, I followed him to the foyer; I do not know that he saw me coming, but he hastened away and entered a box. I determined to wait until he should come out, and stood looking at the box for fifteen minutes. At last, he appeared. I bowed and approached him. He hesitated a moment, then turned and disappeared down a stairway.