A Tragic Idyl

by Paul Bourget

One of them proposed a walk, in the vain hope that a little of the luminous serenity of nature might enter their souls. They used to like to walk together formerly, thinking aloud, keeping step in their minds as in their bodies. They went out, and after ten minutes conversation came to an end between them. Instinctively, and without prearrangement, they shunned the quarters in Cannes where they ran the risk of meeting either Ely or any one of her set. They kept away from the Rue d'Antibes, La Croisette, and the Quai des Yachts. They avoided even the pine forest near Vallauris, where they had spoken of her upon the day that Olivier arrived.

Behind one of the hills which served as outposts to California, they found a deserted valley, quite neglected on account of its northern situation. In this valley there was a kind of wild park, which had been for sale for years. There, in this ravine without horizon, they came almost like two wounded animals taking refuge in the same fold. The roads were so narrow that they could no longer walk abreast. This gave them a pretext for ceasing to talk. The branches stung their faces, their hands were torn with thorns before they arrived at the little rivulet running at the bottom of the gorge. They sat down upon a rock among the tall ferns, and the savageness of this corner of the world, so solitary, and yet so close to the charming city, soothed their suffering for a few moments. The fresh humidity of the vegetation growing in the shadow recalled to their minds similar ravines in the woods of Chaméane. And then they could speak again together, could recall their childhood and their distant friendly souvenirs. It seemed as though they felt their friendship dying away, and that they sought desperately the place whence it had sprung in order to revive its force. From their childhood they passed to their youth, to the years spent together in college, to the impression the war had made upon them.

But there was something forced in these glances backward. There was something conventional, something prearranged, that arrested all freedom of intercourse between them. They felt too keenly in comparison with their former talks in the same way that the spontaneity, the plenitude that had been the charm of their most unimportant conversations formerly was now lacking.

Was their affection any less than at that distant period? Would their friendship never be happy again? Would it never be delivered from this horrible taint of bitterness?

In addition, during their morning and afternoon walks, they only were witnesses to their suffering. If they did not speak freely of their thoughts, at any rate there was no deception. There was no necessity to act before each other. This was all changed during the meal times. They lunched and dined in the salon so that Berthe could be present.

The immediate recommencement of a daily familiarity after such scenes as those which had taken place between the two friends and the young woman appeared at first impossible. In reality it is quite simple and easy. Family life is made up of that only. Olivier and Pierre forced themselves to talk gayly and incessantly out of delicacy toward their companion. The effort was a painful one. And then even the most guarded conversation may be full of danger. A phrase, a word even, was sufficient to send the minds of both back to their relations with Ely. If Olivier made any allusion to something in Italy, Pierre's imagination would turn to Rome. He could see Ely, his Ely of the terrace covered with white and red camellias, his Ely of the garden of Ellenrock, his Ely of the night he had spent at sea. But instead of coming to him she was going toward Olivier. Instead of pressing him to her heart, she flung her arms round Olivier and kissed him. And the vision, prompted by a retrospective jealousy, tortured him.

And if, on his part, he made the most innocent allusion to the beauty of the promenades around Cannes, he saw his friend's eyes dim with a pain which recalled his own sufferings. Olivier could see him in thought walking with Ely, taking her in his arms, kissing her lips. This communion of suffering in the same thought, while it wrung their souls, attracted them with a morbid fascination. How they wished at such moments to question each other about the most secret details of their reciprocal romance! How they wished to know all, to understand all, to suffer at every episode!

When they were alone, a final remnant of dignity forbade them giving way to these hideous confidences, and, when Berthe was there at table, they turned the conversation at once so as not to cause any suffering to the young woman. They could hear her breathe with that uneven respiration, at times short and at others too deep, the breathing that reveals heart-disease. And this sensation of a physical suffering so close to them stirred up a remorse in Olivier and a pity in Pierre that took away all power to act.

Thus the mornings and afternoons and evenings passed away. And both awaited with fear and impatience the moment of retiring. With impatience, because solitude brought with it the liberty of giving themselves up completely to their sentiments; with fear, because they both felt that the vow they had exchanged had not settled the conflict between their love and their friendship.

It is written, "Thou shalt not commit adultery." And the Book adds, "He that hath looked upon the wife of another with desire in his heart hath already committed adultery." The phrase is admirable in its truth. It defines in a word the moral identity that exists between thought and act, concupiscence and possession. The conscience of the two friends was too delicate not to feel with shame that their thoughts, when once alone, were but one long, passionate infidelity to their vow.