St. Rosa’s Convent,
New York

David:

I am here with the good sisters. In a week I sail for France. This must be my last letter to you, and I shrink from the pain that it must bring you. Anne has written you what happened at Taunton. She knows only who I am, and my cousin, General de Villers-Costa, whatever he may suspect, knows no more. He is of my blood, and he is an absolutely loyal gentleman. His lips are sealed. To you alone I must tell everything. Better for us both if I had done so in the beginning. I couldn’t. You will understand why.

David, I have told only two deliberate lies in my life, and each has been followed by a dreadful calamity: the first to save the life of a soldier of France; and the second to you, when you asked me if I were married. I did it because I thought I was doing it for your sake, because I was tried beyond my strength, because I no longer knew what to do, and because, David, I couldn’t bear to leave in your heart a memory that would haunt you. I tell you now because it is inevitable.

David, I have failed, and God has seen fit to punish me. For months I have been tortured by remorse, for months I have refused to bear the full burden of my cross, and no one will ever know—not even you—the agony of my indecision. Now, my way is clear. I know what I must do, and I shall do it.

David, it is so hard to tell you, for as you know now, I am of an old and proud race, that guards its honor with its life; and, David, I am a woman who loves you. Forgive me, if you can, in my weakness. My family thinks me dead. For their sake, for the honor of my family, of my brother, whom you know now is at your side, I am and must remain dead. When I tried to escape from my destiny it was for their sake and their sake alone. Only one other person in this world besides you knows the truth, and that is Marianne, my old nurse, whom you saw at Bordeaux, and who has in her keeping my baby.

I cannot tell you in detail; that would be too horrible, and all the courage that I have built up would not be proof against that hideous memory.

You know that my mother and I were caught in the first German rush through Luxemburg. Our château was but a few kilometers from the border. It was taken and retaken, again and again. We stayed, as a duty to our peasants, to our old men and to our poor women and children. We believed in our pride that the authority of our name and presence could save them from torture and worse than torture. How little we knew the beasts with whom we were dealing! We thought we were safe, for the German commander was an acquaintance of my brothers,—had visited us in our home in the years before the war! For we knew many Germans and we trusted in the honor of a gentleman of noble descent!

David, it is so hard to write it down. I can only do it by moments. Twice we were accused of signaling to the French,—twice imprisoned and threatened with execution,—we who gave our days and nights to but one thought,—the comforting of the dying, friend and enemy. We saw our home battered to pieces, everything we loved destroyed, everything we owned in the world wiped out, and yet, despite every agony, we stayed on, trusting in our sacred mission, to protect and aid those we loved.

And then came the lie. He was a little poilu, hardly more than a boy, who had been left behind, too wounded to carry away. We hid him in our own apartment, my mother and I, and to do it we lied. God forgive me, I would do it again! For discovery meant death: he was an Alsatian and for them the Boches know no pity. For three long weeks we were able to conceal his presence,—until he was able to make a try at escape. They caught him and all was discovered. And then—

They tore my mother from me and sent her off somewhere into the interior, to work in the fields. She was spared the worst,—the knowledge of what happened to me. She died. And to me came worse than death,—but oh, the ferocity of it, the brutality of it, the stamping of a weak woman with the rage of the victor; and he who did it was the one, above all, who by every tradition of chivalry, by every instinct of race, religion and honor—

* * * * *

David, my religion, my faith was all that was left me. What was I to do? To take one’s life is to us a mortal sin; even that escape was denied me. And the horror when I knew that my shame was eternally fastened upon me! For the first months I sought death as only I had the right to seek it, praying for the mercy of a quick end, exposing myself in every bombardment, seeking every post of danger. Men were killed at my side—a child that ran to me was blown to pieces—and I lived.

Then, for the sixth time, our little village was retaken, and I escaped that night into France. A faithful soul gave out the report that I had been killed, and so, thank God, for the honor of my name, I am dead to-day.

The rest? I found my old nurse, Marianne, who concealed my identity and placed the baby (I have never been able to call it mine) with her family. I rebelled against it—God forgive me for that sin, as He in His high righteousness has seen fit to punish me. David, what those months were only a woman can know.

I had not meant to write you like this: but I cannot write it calmly. I have never rebelled against God,—only sometimes, I have not been able to understand. I have tried to think of His stern and equal justice. I have tried to think of all the other women,—yes, of those who have suffered more hideously than I. There was a girl—a child—but no, I cannot even write it. I try to say to myself that it is right that we too, the proud women of France, should suffer with the humblest.

David, where I was wrong was in trying to escape from what was in the will of God. It was my baby, and I forsook it. Night and day, that remorse, that conflict has been in my heart. And now, that through His justice, God has opened my eyes, I know my duty. I am going back to him,—my baby. I shall disappear from the world. No one shall ever know from now on what has become of me. But, since this is my cross, and since life in this world is not for me, I shall take up that cross, and, little by little, I shall learn no longer to rebel. The Holy Virgin, Mother of Sorrows, will watch over me and give me that courage. The child of hate is still an immortal soul and I, its mother, must save it for eternity.

David, I had thought that to write all this to you would break me. It has not. I feel as though something had purified my spirit, and I feel all at once a clarity of vision, a courage that is calm and will not falter. The truth, mon ami, cannot weaken us. It is only when we refuse to face it that we are weak. I feel this so strongly. Share this knowledge with me, and do not suffer for me. I am no longer of this world.

David, it is only of you I think now. Now that the moment has come to say farewell, I can tell you all the love that is in my heart for you, has always been, will always be. David, how little you guessed what was in my heart, for I think I loved you from the first moment our eyes met,—when I saw in yours that look of sympathy—there on the dock. When you came to me that night on the deck, out of the night, and stood by my side, I knew that if I did not fight against it with all my will, I should love you and bring sorrow into your life. And how I fought against you! But in the moment when I felt the strongest I would see a look in your eyes, a wounded, uncomprehending look, and all my strength would go. At times it was all I could do to keep back the tears from my eyes! If only I had not seen all the need of a woman’s love in your life!

And then, one night, after long sleepless hours, I had such a strange dream. I dreamed that I was on a rock in the midst of a great sea that rose and swirled about me, and, all at once I looked down and saw your face in the waters, and you were struggling towards me. I ran down to the edge and stretched out my hands and caught you and drew you up to safety, all wet and limp in my arms. And, ever since, this has haunted me, and at times I have seen in it a sign of your struggling to find your true self and that I, in some mysterious way, was meant to give you strength. I was so torn by differing impulses. I passed such long hours in my little berth, praying to the dear Virgin to help me to struggle, to be strong for your sake. But the moment I came into your presence, the moment I met your eyes, mon ami, I was just a woman, a weak, helpless woman, whose whole being went to you in the longing to love and be loved.

David, may God forgive me if I have done wrong by you; forgive me, too,—for I have loved you with every thought and every impulse of my life, with an intensity beyond my strength. I love you as only those can love, who have known the depths of sorrow and suffering; as those who need love in their lives. If it had only been possible, what happiness I could have given thee, David, to you, who were so gentle and so strong! I know I haven’t the right to say this, but I must! Just for these minutes, I am what I was born to be. Don’t utterly forget me, David,—or rather, yes, utterly forget me, for your sake. I do not know any longer what I am saying, and to end is the end of all. Forget me. It is right and your duty. You must, for your sake, for my sake: but, afterwards, long years afterwards,—when you can do so calmly, remember that somewhere in this world, just as the dusk comes in over the world,—I shall be kneeling and praying for your happiness.

B.

III

I have been in a stupor for hours, my mind paralyzed, my brain unable to comprehend. Instead of rereading the letter eagerly, I put it mechanically back in its envelope and wrapped it up in the little rubber-lined case I carry along with me. I do not know that I shall ever be able to bring myself to read it again. It is too hideous—too incomprehensible. Good God! Such things do not happen! But why? Why? No, I cannot realize it!

* * * * *

For fifty-eight hours I have not lain down or closed my eyes. Ordinarily, after a second night of watchfulness, my physical nature revolts and I tumble over unconsciously. But now, at this moment, I am as keenly awake as though sleep were unknown to my brain. Inside my head, there is a feeling of a great, shining, hollow vacancy, and my little thoughts seem to rattle around in its luminous space, quite lost. I have done the strangest things, with a perfectly calm exterior. This morning I came upon a group of poilus, kneeling before a priest, Père Glorieux, a poilu likewise, a black robe hastily drawn over his soiled uniform,—giving the Communion with a solemn majesty that I shall ever remember. I went and knelt among them, gazing up at the rough bearded face with eyes that shone down into my soul, quite unconscious of anything further than the instinct within me. When he came to me, he hesitated.

“Vous êtes catholique, mon fils?”

I drew up, hastily.

“Non, non, je ne suis pas catholique. Pardon.”

He bowed, hardly noticing the strangeness of my actions in the tumult about us, and I moved away, without realization either,—I was thinking of Bernoline.

* * * * *