The woollen dress

by Henry Bordeaux

* * *

Mlle. Mairieux had taken advantage of these two years to blossom forth like a flower on a long stem. Her slender figure did not indicate weakness so much as a life in the open air. If she blushed or turned pale too rapidly it was due to a sensitiveness too exquisite, like that of the shadow trees, not to the fluctuations of an irregular circulation.

Her features were regular without being bold, and were softened by a crown of blond hair of blended shades, so thick that combs could with difficulty restrain it. And her eyes, which had been so large before, seemed to me to have grown even larger. It seemed as if the whole sky had sought to enter into them. Had I seen her again in the woods, she would have appeared to me like a huntress, more quickly frightened than the hunted game.

I have often searched my memory, in order to defend myself against the fault with which I feel charged, for any physical symptoms which at that time might have foretold the shortness of her life. I cannot recall any. Though the doctors were not able to discover the origin of that strange malady which, after having long sapped her strength, at last carried her away, I, I know whence it came, and I know too that it was not her body that was first attacked.

During our separation I had almost avoided going back to her even in my thought. What with superficial occupation, sport, travel and some sensual indulgence, ordinarily one is fairly successful in suppressing such a fancy. The instant I saw her again, however, my love revived. Had I imprisoned her in the chateau of the Sleeping Woods, and was she only awaiting my return?

* * *

The summer which I spent on my estate was warm and stormy. The forest offered us its freshness, its sheltered nooks, its peace. But why was it that we did not resume our rides? My superintendent evaded any reply to my suggestions. He had devoted more time than I to observing the external attractions of his daughter. To her I spoke only with the most scrupulous deference, for the most part in the presence of her parents, only occasionally when we met alone, these meetings having now become rare. Her clear eyes remained inscrutable to me. Why was it that she did not realise I loved her? And if she did realise it, why did she give no evidence of her joy and gratitude?

Yes, her gratitude. For there was no use in my recognising in her every moral superiority over the women that I had previously met; I was still confident that I was doing her a favour in loving her. Her father might belong to a family much older than my own; but he was nevertheless my employé. She would mount in the social scale. I would raise her to my level. Through me she would attain the summit of fortune. Out of a little sylvan nymph I was going to create one of those divinities who reign over Paris, one of those queens whose despotic tyranny and recognised fascination I had recently experienced. Was not that enough to intoxicate her? I thought how I could inform her of her good fortune tactfully, in order not to overwhelm her with the revelation. Thus do we judge from on high when we perch ourselves upon riches and prejudice. We like to believe that we attach no importance to them, that we are showing genuine simplicity, that we treat as equals those whom we overwhelm with our insolence; and all the time the treasures of the soul escape our vision. We need the virgin ore, and we make use only of the minted gold!

I should have prolonged this period of waiting; for me a period of spiritual refreshment. Raymonde was nearing her twentieth birthday, the white summit of her first youth. In her “desert” she had sprung up like a lily of the fields. She was ignorant of the very existence of those sensations, those flirtations, those trivial love affairs, which, weak emotions though they are, mere forerunners to true love, are yet sufficient to tarnish the heart of a young girl, to put upon it a useless stigma before life has really begun. But those women who preserve themselves unsullied even in their inmost thoughts, who cross their pure hands upon their breasts as though to guard the tabernacle of their future and only love—what husband can ever merit the absolute surrender that they will some day make to him? Can he ever comprehend, can he ever realise the significance of such a gift of infinite confidence, of undying promise? He accepts his conquest as if it were a foreign country, while all the sweetness of a fatherland is offered to him. Yes, I should have prolonged that period of waiting.

Before marriage every man ought to compel himself to retire from the world, to leave an interval between his past and that future for which he is not prepared. A little time must be permitted to flow over our dead passions. A new life demands a new-born spirit. My self-conceit convinced me that I was beloved by Raymonde, although nothing had betrayed her. Might I not have profited by this security to attempt to merit her love by cultivating my own? Was there any need to demand so soon a useless confession, when the spectacle of a heart which was ignorant of itself could cleanse my heart that knew too much?