Then, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her over to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could scarcely stammer: “No, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve me. I prefer to go up into my own room.”
At this Mère-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. “My child, my child!” said she, “reflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret it.”
“No, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much.”
Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.
Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally occurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume immediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she could not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained, these attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting her to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and rave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain subjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully conscious that others must think her unbearable.
Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. “Wasn’t it ridiculous of me?” she said. “To think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like that! Monsieur l’Abbé must have a very bad opinion of me.” Then, after kissing Mère-Grand, she added: “You’ll forgive me, won’t you? Oh! François may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite right, our differences are merely laughing matters.”
“My poor Marie,” replied Guillaume, in a tone of deep affection. “You see what it is to surrender oneself to the absolute. If you are so healthy and reasonable it’s because you regard almost everything from the relative point of view, and only ask life for such gifts as it can bestow. But when your absolute ideas of justice come upon you, you lose both equilibrium and reason. At the same time, I must say that we are all liable to err in much the same manner.”
Marie, who was still very flushed, thereupon answered in a jesting way: “Well, it at least proves that I’m not perfect.”
“Oh, certainly! And so much the better,” said Guillaume, “for it makes me love you the more.”
This was a sentiment which Pierre himself would willingly have re-echoed. The scene had deeply stirred him. Had not his own frightful torments originated with his desire for the absolute both in things and beings? He had sought faith in its entirety, and despair had thrown him into complete negation. Again, was there not some evil desire for the absolute and some affectation of pride and voluntary blindness in the haughty bearing which he had retained amidst the downfall of his belief, the saintly reputation which he had accepted when he possessed no faith at all? On hearing his brother praise Marie, because she only asked life for such things as it could give, it had seemed to him that this was advice for himself. It was as if a refreshing breath of nature had passed before his face. At the same time his feelings in this respect were still vague, and the only well-defined pleasure that he experienced came from the young woman’s fit of anger, that error of hers which brought her nearer to him, by lowering her in some degree from her pedestal of serene perfection. It was, perhaps, that seeming perfection which had made him suffer; however, he was as yet unable to analyse his feelings. That day, for the first time, he chatted with her for a little while, and when he went off he thought her very good-hearted and very human.