Alphonsine Fleury, modiste of Paris, determined that she should die. And, all things considered, it was hardly wonderful that the pretty little girl should come to such a conclusion. Poor child. Fickle woman! Thou hast hardly known Life these eighteen winters, and, yet, would’st be already toying with his brother Death! Die, then, child, if such be thy will. Facilis descensus Averni.
Everybody must admit that she had reason. She called him her lover, that false and whiskered Jules, hero of the barricades, best polker at the Chaumière. And he had sworn to love her, and perhaps he meant it. For between Truth and Falsehood, there lies the Paradise of the Purposeless (shrouded, as the Doric poets sing, in a sapphire cloud), and there are kept the vows which expire on earth for lack of the vivifying presence of the undying Earnest.
Jules was false, and Alphonsine would die. But when one has decided on doing a thing, one has still to decide on the way of doing it. And in regard to dying, one ought really to be careful; because (so far as one sees) there is no way, if one does it awkwardly, of repairing the blunder. The Biggest can die but once. There ran the Seine, and the Pont-Neuf was toll-less, which was a consideration, as Alphonsine’s last sou had gone to purchase her last roll. But the Seine was so muddy, and then the Morgue, and its wet marble. The poor child shuddered at the thought. And the costume, too, for she was French, and, moreover, had instinctive delicacy. Clearly not the Seine.
The towers of Notre Dame. Better, certainly; and she would go rushing into the arms of Death, with a heart full of Victor Hugo, Peer of France. But no! Why, she had been quite ill going down one of the montagnes Russes at the last carnival, even though Jules had held her in the car. She would never be able to look down from the giant tower. Could it shake its grim head and hurl her quivering away, it might be done. But a leap thence! M. D. Lamartine himself never dreamed of such a Chute d’un ange.
Poison. But Jules had taken her to see Frederic Lemaitre, poisoned by la Dame de St. Tropez. His contortions under the arsenic—quel horreur! There would be nobody to see her make faces, certainly, but what of that? Is one to lose all self-respect because one is going to kill oneself? Alphonsine’s mind rejected the poison.
It should be charcoal. Certainly, charcoal. Alphonsine would die like a Countess who had betrayed her husband, gambled away her fortune, and found a pimple on her nose. It was a lady’s death; and Alphonsine, a skilful little milliner, had been among ladies until she had taken measure of their minds as well as of their waists. So she would leave the world gracefully, and comme il faut.
Glow, thou ebon incense for the Altar of Doom; glow in thy little censer there beside her, in other days the lid of her saucepan. Glow, for there lies the poor child, Bride of Death, expectant of her Bridegroom. She has arrayed her mansarde so neatly, that, when the rough Commissaires de Police force the door, they will pause upon the threshold—perhaps touch their hats. And she lies with clasped hands, and upon her maiden bosom rests a daguerreotype of her faithless lover. Glow, dark charcoal, glow, and let thy fames waft her spirit from this cold world, to realms where Anteros smiles upon the True and the Beautiful.
She is dying. But, O kindly Mother of the Dead, thou sendest through the Portal of Ivory a gentle Dream. Through the closing eyes of Alphonsine that Dream looks forth, and its look falls upon that glowing censer, which glares like the eye of a Demon. Full into that Demon-eye looks the Dream, unscared, and what sees it there? Alphonsine dreams that a mighty and a pitying Voice hath come forth from the Treasure-house of Fate, and hath said unto that fiery charcoal, Be as thou wert wont to be.
The modest charcoal knows its Lord, and blushes. Then, suddenly paling its fires, they soften into crystal light; and as they subside, the charcoal glitters in its other and more glorious form, the Diamond! Countless treasures roll at the feet of the expiring Alphonsine. * * *
Expiring?—Oh, no! The world has rose-joy for her yet. Jules, repentant and terrified, has shattered her door, has dashed her window into air, has kicked her charcoal to earth: and as he restores her to life with cold water and warm kisses, he shows her a ticket for them both for to-night’s Bal Masqué.