I started up, read the letter over and over, tore it, and wrote another, repeating only what I had written, and then again destroyed it. As if by an unknown power I was drawn against my will to a crime at which my soul vainly shuddered. While vowing to myself, in a half-suppressed voice, that I would start for Nismes, and never again see the walls of Montpellier, I also vowed unconsciously I would never leave the charming though unhappy woman; but that I would cling to her, although my passion should lead to inevitable death.
It was as if two distinct souls were struggling within me with equal power and skill. But consciousness became more dim, and the feeling of duty expired in the feeling of the all-engrossing desire. I resolved to hasten to Madame Bertollon, thinking that she was perhaps tormenting herself with reproaches at the weakness she had shown, or that she also might be determined to leave me and Monpellier. I intended to detain her to reason away her fears, and to endeavour to persuade her of the lawfulness of our love.
I started up and ran to the door. A voice within me again cried, “You are going to sin then?—to lose the long guarded feeling of innocence?” I hesitated, and stepped back, saying to myself, “Be pure as God and continue so. One day more and this storm will pass over, and then you are safe.”
This holy feeling exalted me; the words, “Be pure as God,” sounded above the tumult of my agitated feelings, and deterred me, for the time at least, from hastening to Madame Bertollon. But the struggle remained undecided; my yearnings became more impetuous, and I scorned my own virtuous intentions.
At this moment the door of my room opened, and M. Bertollon entered.
“How are you, dear Colas,” he asked, “are you unwell?” At this question I first perceived that I had thrown myself on my bed, from which I jumped up, but had not the courage to take the hand which he extended to me.
“But what is the matter with you, Colas?” he said again, “you look confused and pale.”
Before I could reply, the voice within me again called, “Disclose all to him, disclose all to her husband, and a barrier will be raised between you and his wife; you will remain pure, you will not be the seducer of a woman, nor the traitor and deceiver of your noble benefactor and friend.”
“Bertollon,” said I, hastily, fearing that I might not finish my confession; “I am unhappy, because I love your wife.” I had scarcely uttered the last syllable when remorse seized me; but it was too late, it was done, the husband knew all, and I was now for once right. In the wild tumult of the senses, when powerful passion struggles with the sense of duty, it is only a sudden and decided act which we perceive to be a remedy, that can save us. We must as it were forcibly drive the reluctant body to accomplish it, until we can no more return. I felt like one who is tossed about by the waves of the ocean, and who, when on the point of drowning, indistinctly perceives before his giddy eye the branches on the shore, and hears a voice within him saying, “Seize them.”
Bertollon changed colour and said, “What did you say, Colas?”