Arthur

by Eugène Sue

I gave myself up on these occasions to a sort of scornful rage, as ridiculous as it was puerile, whenever I would pass before a splendid residence, or a brightly lit up theatre, where the carriages were rapidly driving up from every direction. I, too, if I desire it, can have my place in these gay salons, amid this splendid and envied throng; if I so willed it my restive horses would now be bearing me to these very fêtes! The existence I scorn would be the joy and pride of most men, and yet, from I know not what caprice, which thus insults the ready-made happiness that fate has bestowed upon me, I prefer to wander thus on foot, dragging my incurable sadness through these muddy streets.

A woman who was both beautiful and young, noble and clever, who united in herself all that could flatter a man's vanity, has deigned to ravish me with the most perfect love, and, after two months of ideal bliss, without reason or shame, I have insanely and brutally trampled this love under my feet with anger and scorn! And now I have no longer the courage to be angry and spiteful; I weep; I am the most miserable of men; I go about, hiding myself like a criminal; and these indecent creatures, who shamelessly wander about here and there in the mud, they dare to speak to me,—to me. To me, who at this very hour might be at the feet of a woman who is admired by all for her elegance, wit, and beauty! A woman who offered me the realisation of my fondest dream of happiness, and who, perhaps, might even now be holding my hand in hers, saying in her enchanting voice, while her eyes became humid with love, "My life is thine,—my life and my soul!"

Truly it was frightful, and yet, through the strange perversity of my unfortunate nature, I took a sort of gloomy and inexplicable delight in contrasting this dismal and abject present with such a dazzling and bewildering past.

One night, five or six days after Marguerite's departure, I was at the height of one of these painful paroxysms of grief. The night was dark, a drizzly, cold rain was falling; I enveloped myself in my cloak, and went out.

I had never been aware of the dismal aspect of the streets of Paris at this hour; nothing could be more forlorn and lugubrious than the pale reflection of the street-lamps on the pavements, as they shone on the fetid mud that covered the sidewalks, and in the stagnant water of the gutters. Wandering thus, I often thought of the miserable state of a homeless man, without bread, without resources, wandering thus as I wandered. I will admit that, when such thoughts assailed me, if I met on my road, in such stormy weather, some poor woman carrying a child already bearing the impress of misery, or some lean, old, trembling beggar, I would bestow on them liberal alms; and, although vice was probably the cause of their miserable condition, I always felt a moment of the greatest satisfaction in seeing with what a stupefied look they would touch a piece of gold. And then the whole terrible picture of misery would expose itself to my view! Not the misery of the man who, building a hut of leaves, or hiding himself in the cleft of a rock, can, at least, breathe pure and invigorating air, and have the consolation of the sunshine and solitude; but the sordid and swarming misery of great cities, which herds together in infected shelters in order to keep warm.

Then an insurmountable terror would come over me as I would imagine myself by some unforeseen calamity forced to live the same life pell-mell with these unfortunate creatures who are depraved as much through poverty as crime.

I would become pale with affright at such a thought, for the most laborious condition, with a life in the open air, and solitude, had no terrors for me, but when I thought of this herding together, the hideous and perpetual contact of prisoners and galériens, for example, I was sometimes so wild and so terrified that it was an overwhelming relief to me to return to my home, which I found all lighted up, and where attentive servants, my books, my pictures, my portraits, all the peace and comforts of seclusion, awaited me, and where I could fly as to a haven of refuge.

Oh, then it was that on my knees I gratefully thanked my father for all he had done for me in leaving me rich. It was but a poor sort of gratitude, which had need of being thus terrified before it could awaken in my heart and revive for an instant those souvenirs which were already so far distant and so forgotten!

But to return to my nocturnal promenades. One night, as I almost aimlessly wandered along the streets, I arrived at the Boulevard de la Bastille. The moon threw an uncertain light through the flying clouds that obscured her disc, for it was very windy, and a drizzling rain was falling steadily. It might have been about nine o'clock.

Among some of the detached houses, situated near the old garden of Beaumarchais, I noticed one because it seemed newer than the others, and singularly clean and neat. It was very small, and a railing breast-high protected a little square garden like those we see before houses in England. Opening on to the garden, and at one of the corners of the house, was a green door with a brass knocker; the house was only one story high above the ground floor; three windows down-stairs, and three on the upper floor. In the closed shutters I noticed three small holes, destined, no doubt, to allow the light to enter; a bright light shone out from these openings, which were just on a level with my eye. I gave way to momentary idle curiosity, and peeped in.