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affairs. It will stand between my mouth and that of my bride,
claiming the kisses of my soiled lips. When I am asleep, it will visit
me in a horrible dream. When my sweetheart shall whisper in my
ear some delicious word, it will be there to tell me that it was the
first to talk thus to me. When I shall lean my head upon the
shoulder of my bride, it will present to me its shoulder on which I
once reposed. Thus it will ever freeze my heart with the accursed
remembrance of our betrothal.
Yes, that night has sufficed to deprive me of supreme peace. My first
kiss has not awakened a soul. I have not felt the holy ignorance of
pure caresses, my timid lips have not found lips as timid as
themselves. I shall never experience that simple playfulness, that
innocence of a couple who know not the ways of the world. They
tremble, embrace, and weep for joy. But, as they kiss each other,
hesitatingly, they realize that they are one, that their hearts beat in
unison, and that God has joined them for the voyage of life.
Then, when this knowledge has come, when they have in a kiss
divined the law of the Omnipotent, what must be their delight to
owe to each other this revelation, this infinitude of joy! They have
participated in a common blessing: they have put on their white
robes and now are clad like the cherubim. Mingling their very breath,
smiling with the same smile, they repose in their union. Holy hour, in
which hearts beat more freely, finding a heaven to which they can
ascend. Sainted hour, in which ignorant love suddenly learns the full
measure of its strength, believes itself the master of the universe
and is intoxicated with its first flight. Brothers, may God keep for you
that hour, the remembrance of which perfumes one's entire life. It
will never be mine.
Such is fate. It is rare that two pure hearts meet; nearly always one
heart of any twain can no longer give its ecstasy in its flower. To-day,
most young men of twenty like ourselves, who are eager to love,
lacking the power to force the bars and bolts of honest houses,
hasten to the wide open doors of boudoirs easier of access. When
we ask upon what shoulders we shall lean our heads, fathers hide
their daughters and push us into the gloom of the lanes. They cry
out to us to respect their children, who will some day be our wives;
they prefer for them, instead of our first caresses, those learned
elsewhere.
Hence how few keep their early love for their brides, how few, in the
desert of their youth, refuse the companions into whose society they
are driven by the singular behavior of parents! Some, foolish and
wicked lads, glory in their shame; they drag their ignoble flirtations
before the public eye. Others, when the soul awakes at the first
summons of the sweetheart, are filled with overwhelming sorrow on
vainly interrogating the horizon and at not knowing where to find the
rightful claimant of the heart. They go straight ahead, staring at the
balconies, leaning towards each youthful visage: the balconies are
deserted, the youthful visages remain veiled. Some night an arm is
slipped within their own, a voice makes them start. Already weary
and despairing, unable to discover the angel of love, they follow the
spectre.
Brothers, I do not wish to make an excuse for my fault, but let me
say that it is strange to cloister purity and permit dissipation to walk
in the glare of the sun with uplifted head. Let me deplore this
distrust of love, which creates a solitude around the lover, and this
guarding of virtue by vice, which causes a young man to encounter
shame before reaching the door of innocence. He who yields to
temptation may well say to his bride: "I am unworthy of you, but
why did you not come to my rescue? Why did you not meet me in
the flowery fields, before all those by-ways, each nook of which has
its priestess? Why were you not the first to greet my eyes, thus
sparing yourself in sparing me?"
On returning home this evening, I found upon the stairway the old
woman of the other night. She was toilsomely ascending in front of
me, aiding herself with the cord and placing both feet on each step.
She turned around.
"Well, Monsieur, is your patient better?" she asked. "She no longer
shivers, I imagine, and you yourself do not seem to have suffered
from the cold. Ah! I well knew that a young man could take better
care of a handsome girl than an old woman."
She laughed, showing her empty mouth. The politeness of this aged
wretch who had led a gay life made me blush.
"You need not color so!" she added. "I have seen others as proud as
yourself enter without shame and depart singing. Youth loves to
laugh, and girls who play the wise one are fools. Ah! if I were only
fifteen again!"
I had reached my door. She caught me by the arm as I was about to
go in, and continued:
"I had flaxen hair then, and my cheeks were so fresh that my
admirers nicknamed me Pâquerette. If you had seen me, you would
have been astonished. I lived on the ground floor, in a nest of silk
and gold. Now, I lodge under the eaves. I have only to descend to
go to the cemetery. Ah! your friend Laurence is happy: she is as yet
but in the fourth story."
So the girl was called Laurence. I had been ignorant even of her
name.

CHAPTER VI

DESPAIR

I resumed my work, but with repugnance, and was weary from the
commencement. Now that I had lifted a corner of the veil, I had
neither the courage to let it fall again nor the boldness to draw it
away altogether. When I seated myself at my table, I leaned sadly
on my elbows, letting the pen slip from my fingers and muttering:
"What is the good!" My intelligence seemed worn out; I dare not re-
read the few phrases I had written; I no longer felt that joy of the
poet, whom a happy rhyme fills with unreasoning and childish
laughter. Scold me, brothers, for limping verses are shorn of their
power to keep me awake.
My slim resources are diminishing. I can calculate the hour when
everything will be gone. I eat my bread, being almost in haste to
finish it that I may no longer see it melt away at each meal. I am
surrendering to want like a coward; the struggle for food terrifies
me.
Ah! how they lie who assert that poverty is the mother of talent! Let
them count those whom despair has made illustrious and those
whom it has slowly debased. When tears are caused by a heart
wound, the wrinkles they dig are beautiful and noble; but when
hunger makes them flow, when every night a baseness or a brutish
task drys them, they furrow the face frightfully, without imparting to
it the sad serenity of age.
No; since I am so poor that I may, perhaps, die to-morrow, I cannot
work. When the closet was full I had great courage. I felt the
strength to gain my bread. Now it is nearly empty and I am given
over to lassitude. It would be easier for me to endure hunger than to
make the smallest effort.
I well know that I am cowardly and false to my vows. I know that I
have not the right already to take refuge in defeat. I am only
twenty: I cannot be weary of a world of which I am ignorant.
Yesterday, I dreamed of it as sweet and good. Is it a new dream
which makes me form a bad opinion of it to-day?
Oh! brothers, my first step has been unfortunate: I am afraid to
advance. I will exhaust my suffering, shed all my tears, and my
smiles will return. I will work with a gayer heart to-morrow.

CHAPTER VII
 LAURENCE

Yesterday afternoon, I went to bed at five o'clock, in broad day,

forgetting the key in the lock.
About midnight, as I saw in a dream a young blonde stretch out her
arms to me, a sound which I had heard in my sleep made me
suddenly open my eyes. My lamp was lighted. A woman, standing at
the foot of the bed, was looking at me. Her back was towards the
light, and I thought, in the confusion of awaking, that God had taken
pity on me and transformed one of my visions into reality.
The woman approached. I recognized Laurence—Laurence with bare
head, wearing her handsome blue silk dress. Her uncovered
shoulders were purple with cold. Laurence had come to me.
"My friend," said she, "I owe the landlord forty francs. He has just
refused me the key of my door and told me to seek shelter
elsewhere. It was too late to go out, and I thought of you."
She sat down to unlace her boots. I did not understand, I did not
wish to understand. It seemed to me that this girl had stolen into my
garret to destroy me. The lamp, lighted I knew not how, the
scantily-clad woman in the middle of the icy chamber, terrified me. I
was tempted to shout for help.
"We will live as you like," continued Laurence. "I am not
embarrassing."
I sat up to awaken myself completely. I began to understand, and
what I understood was horrible. I restrained a harsh word which had
arisen to my lips: abuse is repugnant to me, and I suffer when I
insult any one.
"Madame," I simply said, "I am poor."
Laurence burst into a torrent of laughter.
"You call me Madame!" she resumed. "Are you angry? What have I
done to you? I know you are poor—you showed me too much
respect to be rich. Well, we will be poor."
"I can give you neither gewgaws nor enticing meals."
"Do you think that they have often been given to me? People are not
so kind to poor girls! We roll in carriages only in novels. For one who
finds a dress ten die of hunger."
"I eat but two very meagre meals a day; together, we could only
have one, and that of bread dried that we might consume less of it,
with simply water to drink."
"You wish to frighten me. Have you not a father, in Paris or
elsewhere, who sends you books and clothes which you afterwards
sell? We will eat your hard bread and go to the ball to drink
champagne."
"No, I am alone in the world; I work for my living. I cannot associate
you with my poverty."
Laurence stopped unlacing her boots. She sat still and thought.
"Listen," she said, suddenly: "I am without bread and without a
shelter. You are young; you cannot conceive the extent of our
perpetual distress, even amid luxury and gayety. The street is our
sole domicile; elsewhere we are not at home. We are shown the
door and we depart. Do you wish me to depart? You have the right
to drive me away, and I the resource of going to sleep under some
bridge."
"I do not wish to drive you away. I tell you only that you have ill-
chosen your refuge. You can never accustom yourself to my sadness
and want."
"Chosen! Ah! you think that we are permitted to choose! You may
not believe it, but I came here because I knew not where else to go.
I climbed the stairs furtively to pass the night upon a step. I leaned
against your door, and then it was that I thought of you. You have
only hard bread; I have not eaten anything since yesterday, and my
smile is so faint that it will not bring me a meal to-morrow. You see
that I can remain. I had just as well die here as in the street—
besides, it is less cold."
"No; look further; you will find some one richer and gayer than I.
Later you will thank me for not having received you."
Laurence arose. Her countenance had assumed an indescribable
expression of bitterness and irony. Her look was not supplicating: it
was insolent and cynical. She crossed her arms and stared me in the
face.
"Come," said she, "be frank: you do not want me. I am too ugly, too
miserable. I displease you, and you wish to get rid of me. You have
no money, and yet you want a pretty sweetheart. I was a fool not to
think of that. I ought to have said to myself that I was not worth
even the attention of poverty and that I must descend a round of
the ladder. I am thirsty, but I can drink from the gutters; I am
hungry, but theft, perhaps, will afford me nourishment. I thank you
for your advice."
She gathered her dress about her and walked towards the door.
"Do you know," hissed she, "that we wretches are better than you
honest folks?"
And she talked for a long while in a sharp voice. I cannot reproduce
the brutal force of her language. She said that she was the slave of
our caprices, that she laughed when we told her to laugh, and that
we turned our backs upon her later when we met her. Who forced us
to seek her, who pushed us into her company in the darkness, that
we should show so much contempt for her in broad day? I had once
paid her a visit—why did I not want to see her now? Had I forgotten
that she was a woman and as such was entitled even to my
protection? The weak should always be protected and sheltered by
the strong. Now that she was famished, I took a cruel delight in
telling her that I had nothing for her to eat. Now that she was
houseless, I gloried in telling her that I refused to give her a refuge.
Because she was miserable I deemed it incumbent upon me to make
her more miserable still, for the truth was that I could do so with
impunity. I was afraid of her. She recalled the past too vividly. I
wished to deny her very existence. I was, indeed, a man to be
admired, a man with a noble, generous heart.
She was silent for an instant. Then she resumed, with more energy:
"You came to me and I received you as my husband. Now you deny
that I have any rights. You lie. I have all the rights of a wife. You
gave them to me, and you cannot undo what is done. You are mine
and I am yours. You repudiate me and you are a coward!"
Laurence had opened the door. She hurled insults at me as she
stood upon the threshold, pale with anger. I leaped from the bed
and caught her by the arm.
"You can remain," I said. "You are like ice. Lie down, cover yourself
up, and get warm."
Will you believe, brothers, that I was weeping! It was not pity. The
tears flowed of themselves down my cheeks, though I felt only an
immense and vague sadness.
The girl's words had made a deep impression on me. Her argument,
the force of which, doubtless, escaped her, seemed to me just and
true. I realized so perfectly that she had her rights, that I could not
have driven her away without thinking myself the incarnation of
injustice. She was a woman still, and I could not treat her like a
lifeless object which contempt and abandonment cannot affect.
Setting all else aside, humanity demanded that I should help her.
The pure and the guilty are both liable to come to us, some winter
night, to tell us that they are cold, that they are hungry, that they
have need of us. Alas! we often receive the one and thrust the other
into the gloomy and inhospitable street!
This is because we have the cowardice of our vices. It is because we
would be terrified to have beside us a living remembrance and
remorse. It pleases us to live honored, and when we blush at the
call of some wretched creature, we deny her to explain our blushes
by her impudence. And we do this without deeming ourselves
culpable, without asking ourselves what justice this creature
demands. Custom has made us consider her a disgrace, and we are
astonished that this disgrace speaks and calls itself a woman.
My friends, I trembled before the truth. I understood and I wept.
The question seemed to me simple, clear and self-evident.
Laurence's words had frightened without disgusting me. I had not
dreamed of her coming; but she came and I received her. I cannot,
brothers, explain to you what were my feelings. My mind of twenty
years had accepted in their absolute sense those words which
admitted of no hesitation: "You are mine and I am yours!"
The next morning, when I awoke and found Laurence in my room, I
felt my heart ready to burst with anguish. The scene of the past
night was effaced. I no longer heard the true and rude words which
had made me receive the girl. The brutal fact alone remained.
I looked at her as she slept. I saw her for the first time by daylight,
without her face having the strange beauty of suffering or despair.
When she thus appeared to me, ugly and prematurely old, plunged
into a heavy, brutish slumber, I trembled before that faded and
common countenance which I did not recognize. I could not
comprehend how it was that I had awakened in such company. I
seemed as if I had come out of a dream, and the reality proved so
horrible that I had forgotten what had made me accept it.
But what difference did it make whether it was pity, justice or mercy.
The girl was there. Ah! brothers, can I shed enough tears, and will
you have sufficient courage to dry them!

CHAPTER VIII

A MISSION FROM ON HIGH

Yes, I think as you do; I wish still to hope, I wish to make this fatal
union a source of noble aspirations.
Formerly, when our thoughts drifted towards such unfortunate
creatures as Laurence, we felt only mercy and pity for them. We
discerned the holy task of redemption. We asked God to send us a
dead soul, that we might, by kindly and gentle ways, restore it to
youth and purity.
The faith of our sixteenth year, we thought, ought to make sinners
believe and bow the head.
Then, we were Didier, pardoning Marion and acknowledging her as a
wife at the foot of the scaffold. We lifted the sinner to the height of
our tenderness.
Well, now I can be Didier. Marion, as sinful as the day he pardoned
her, is here. She needs the white robe of purity, a hand to guide her
wavering steps aright, to steady her in the narrow and difficult path
which leads to the happiness of innocence. Her pale face requires a
pure atmosphere to restore to it the glow of youthful health. What
we wished for in our sainted hallucinations I have found without
searching for it.
Since Laurence has come to me, I wish to erase all the evil instincts
of her heart, to give it the healthful tone and freshness of mine. I
will be a priest for this poor wretch: I will lift her up, console and
pardon her.
Who knows, brothers, but that this is a supreme trial, an appointed
task, that God has sent me! Perhaps, it is His wish, in charging me
with a soul, to develop all the latent strength of mine. Perhaps, He
has reserved for me the office of the strong, and does not fear to
entrust me with the reformation of a human being. I will be worthy
of His choice.
 CHAPTER IX

THE COURSE OF REFORMATION

I desire to make Laurence forget what she is, to deceive her in

regard to herself by the genuine friendship I show her. I speak to
her only with gentleness; my words are always grave and carefully
chosen.
Whenever she utters any of the slang of the street, I feign not to
hear her. I inculcate the lessons of innocence, and treat her as a
sister who has need of instruction. I oppose a calm and thoughtful
life to her noisy life of the past. I pretend to ignore that this
existence is not hers; I endeavor to be so natural in the imposition
that, in the end, she will doubt that she ever lived otherwise.
Yesterday, in the street, a man insulted her. She was about to return
insult for insult. I did not give her time. I approached the man, who
was intoxicated, and caught him by the wrist, commanding him to
respect my wife.
"Your wife!" cried he, ironically. "I know all about such wives!"
Then, I shook him violently, repeating my order in a sterner tone. He
stammered out something and slunk away, begging pardon.
Laurence silently resumed my arm, apparently confused by the title
of wife which I had bestowed upon her.
I well know that too much austerity is not advisable. I do not hope
for a sudden return to good; I wish to manage a skilful and gradual
transition, which shall prevent her poor, sick eyes from being
wounded by the light. There lies the whole difficulty of the task.
I have noticed that such girls as Laurence, women before their time,
long keep the thoughtlessness and childishness of the infant. They
are wearied and would yet willingly play with the doll. A trifle
amuses them, makes them burst out laughing; they find again,
unconsciously, the astonishment and caressing babble of little girls of
five. I have taken advantage of this observation. I give Laurence
gewgaws which make us great friends for an hour.
You cannot imagine the deep emotion this strange education has
awakened in me. When I think I have made Laurence's dead heart
beat, I am tempted to kneel and thank God. Without doubt, I
exaggerate the sanctity of my mission. I say to myself that the love
of a pure creature would sanctify me less than the devotion this poor
girl will some day feel for me.
That day is yet afar off. My companion is embarrassed by my respect
for her. She, whom insults do not affect, colors to the roots of her
hair when I talk to her in a brotherly fashion, intent upon my good
work. Sometimes, I see her hesitate before answering me,
apparently doubting that it was to her I had spoken. She is amazed
at not being reproached, and seems ill at ease because of my
delicate attentions. The mask of innocence, which I have forced her
to put on, worries her: she knows not how to bear esteem. Often I
surprise a smile on her lips; she must think that I am mocking her,
and this smile seems to ask me to kindly stop joking.
In the evening, at bed-time, she puts out the candle before
undressing; she draws over her the corners of the coverings, and
takes advantage of my sleep to leap from her couch in the morning.
When she talks, she selects her words; following my example, she
avoids being familiar with me.
I cannot tell why these precautions disturb me: I see in them more
of constraint than true repentance. I feel that she acts and talks as
she does out of fear of displeasing me, but that, so far as she herself
is concerned, she is indifferent about her behavior and would as
soon talk the language of the markets as not. She cannot have
acquired so quickly a knowledge of her errors. I tell you, brothers,
Laurence is afraid of me: such is the result of a week of respect.
As soon as she rises, she makes a grand toilet; she runs to the
looking-glass and forgets herself there for an hour. She is in haste to
repair the disorders of the night. Her thin locks are let fall, showing
bare places on her head; her cheeks, from which the rouge has been
rubbed, are pale and faded. She knows that she no longer has her
borrowed youth, and is afraid that I will notice its absence should I
turn my gaze upon her. The poor girl, who has lived beneath a coat
of paint, fears lest I should drive her away when I see her without it.
She combs her hair laboriously, puffing out her locks and skilfully
concealing the vacant spots left by those which are gone; she
blackens her eyelashes, whitens her shoulders and reddens her lips.
Meanwhile I keep my back turned towards her, feigning to see
nothing of all this. Then, when she has painted her face and thinks
herself sufficiently young and beautiful, she comes to me smilingly.
She is calmer, feeling certain that she is safe. She offers herself
fearlessly to my eyes. She forgets that I cannot be deceived by the
pretty colors she has put on, and seems to think that when I see
them I am satisfied.
I told her in plain words that I preferred fresh water to pomades and
cosmetics. I even went so far as to add that I liked her premature
wrinkles better than the greasy and shining mask she put on her
countenance every day. She did not understand. She blushed,
thinking that I was reproaching her with her ugliness, and since then
she has made increased efforts not to look like herself.
Thus combed and rouged, wrapped in her blue silk dress, she drags
herself from chair to chair, careless and wearied. Not daring to stir
for fear of deranging a fold of her skirt, she generally remains seated
the rest of the day. She crosses her hands, and, with her eyes open,
falls into a sort of waking sleep. Sometimes, she rises and walks to
the window; there she leans her forehead against the icy panes and
resumes her doze.
She was active enough before she became my companion. The
agitated life she then led gave her a feverish ardor; her idleness was
noisy and joyfully accepted the rude tasks set for it. Now, sharing
my calm and studious existence, she has all the laziness of peace
without its gentle and regular work.
I must, before everything else, cure her of carelessness and
weariness. I plainly see that she regrets the strife, confusion and
excitement of her early days, but she is by nature so devoid of
energy that she is afraid to regret them openly. I have told you,
brothers, that she fears me. She does not fear my anger, but she
stands in terror of the unknown being whom she cannot
comprehend. She vaguely seizes my wishes and bows before them,
ignorant of their true meaning. Hence she is circumspect in her
conduct without being repentant, and remains serious and tranquil
without ceasing to be idle and lazy. Hence also she thinks that she
cannot refuse my esteem, and, though she is sometimes amazed at
it, she never seeks to be worthy of it.

CHAPTER X

THE EMBROIDERY STRIP

I suffered to see Laurence weighed down and languishing. I thought

that toil was the great agent of redemption, and that the calm joy at
the accomplishment of a task would make her forget the past. While
the needle flies nimbly the heart awakes; the activity of the fingers
gives to reverie a gayer and purer vivacity. A woman bent over her
work has I know not what perfume of honesty. She is at peace and
makes haste. Yesterday, perhaps, an erring creature, the
workwoman of to-day has found again the active serenity of the
innocent. Speak to her heart, it will answer you.
Laurence said she would like to be a seamstress. I desired that she
should remain under my care, away from the workrooms. It seemed
to me that quiet hours passed together, I inventing some story or
other and she mingling her dream with the thread of her
embroidery, would unite us in a gentler and deeper friendship. She
accepted this idea of work as she accepts each one of my wishes,
with a passive obedience, a singular mixture of indifference and
resignation.
After considerable search, I discovered an aged lady who was willing
to trust her with a bit of work to judge of her skill. She toiled until
midnight, for I was to take home the work on the following morning.
I watched her as she sewed. She seemed to be asleep; her sad
expression had not left her. The needle, moving mechanically and
regularly, told me that her body alone was working, her mind taking
no part in the task.
The old lady pronounced the muslin badly embroidered; she
declared to me that it was the work of a poor embroiderer, and that
I never could find any one who would be satisfied with such long
stitches and so little grace. I had feared this. The poor girl, having
possessed jewels at fifteen, could not have had much experience
with the needle. Fortunately, I sought in her work the slow cure of
her heart, and not the skill of her fingers or the profit of her toil. In
order not to give her back to idleness by imposing upon her a task
myself, I resolved to hide from her the discouraging refusal of the
old lady to employ her further.
I bought a stamped embroidery strip as I walked home. On entering,
I told her that her work had given satisfaction and that she had been
entrusted with more. Then, I handed her the few sous I had left,
telling her I had received them as her pay. I knew that on the
morrow, perhaps, I could not repeat this, and I regretted it. I
desired to make her love the savor of bread honestly earned.
Laurence took the money without disturbing herself about the
evening meal. She hastened away to purchase a row of velvet-
covered buttons for her blue dress, which was already torn and
stained. Never had I seen her so active; a quarter of an hour
sufficed for her to sew on these buttons. She made a grand toilet,
then admired herself. When night came on, she was still walking
back and forth in the chamber, looking at her new buttons. As I
lighted the lamp, I told her gently to go to work. She did not seem
to understand me. I repeated my words, and then she sat down
roughly, angrily seizing the embroidery strip. My heart was filled with
sorrow.
"Laurence," said I, "it is not my wish to force you to work; put aside
your needle, if you feel inclined to do nothing. I have not the right to
impose a task upon you. You are free to be good or bad."
"No, no," she replied, "you want me to toil like a slave. I understand
that I must pay for my food and my share of the rent. I might even
pay your part, too, by working later at night."
"Laurence!" cried I, sadly. "Go, poor girl, and be happy. You shall not
touch a needle again. Give me that embroidery strip."
And I threw the muslin into the fire. I saw it burn, regretting my
hastiness. I had been unable to control my anguish, and was
overwhelmed at the thought that Laurence was escaping from me. I
had restored her to idleness. I trembled as I thought of the
outrageous accusation she had made against me—that I wanted the
money she might earn; I realized tha it was no longer possible for
me to advise her to work. So, it was all over; a single outburst on
her part had sufficed to make me withdraw from her the means of
redemption.
Laurence was not in the least surprised at my sudden rage. I have
told you that she more readily accepts anger than affection. She
even smiled at conquering what she called my weariness. Then she
crossed her hands, happy in her idleness.
As I stirred the warm cinders on the hearth, I sadly asked myself
what word, what sentiment, could awaken her stupefied soul! I was
horror-stricken that I had not yet been able to restore to her the
innocence of her childhood. I would have preferred her ignorant,
eager to know. I was filled with despair at this sad indifference, this
night satisfied with its gloom, and so dense that it refused to admit
the light. Vainly had I knocked at Laurence's heart: no answer had
been returned to me. I was tempted to believe that death had
passed over it and had dried up all its fibres. But a single quiver and
I should have thought the girl saved.
But what was to be done with this nothingness, this desolated
creature, this insensible marble which affection could not animate?
Statues frighten me: they stare without seeing and have no intellect
to understand.
Then, I said to myself that, perhaps, it was my fault if I could not
make Laurence understand me. Didier loved Marion; he did not seek
to save a soul—he simply loved—and yet he effected the miracle
which my reason and kindness had sought in vain to accomplish. A
heart awakes only at the voice of a heart. Love is the holy baptism
which of itself, without the faith, without the science of good, remits
every sin.
I do not love Laurence. That cold and wearied girl causes me only
disgust.
Her voice and gestures seem insults in my eyes; her entire form
wounds me. Deprived of every delicacy of mind, she makes the
kindest word odious, and thrusts an outrage into each one of her
smiles. In her everything becomes bad.
I strove to feign tenderness and approached her. She sat motionless,
leaning towards the hearth, and allowed me to take her cold and
inert hands. Then, I drew her near me. She lifted her head,
questioning me with a look. Beneath that look I recoiled, repulsing
her.
"Well, what do you want?" she asked.
What did I want! My lips were open to cry to her: "I want you to
take off that wretched silk dress and put on honest calico. I want
you to cease pining after your past career. I want you to listen to me
and understand what I say. I want you to turn your thoughts
towards innocence and goodness. I want to make you a worthy
woman."
But, brothers, I did not say this. If I had loved her, I should without
doubt have spoken, and, perhaps, she would have understood me.

CHAPTER XI

ON THE WAY TO THE BALL

I think I have been lacking both in skill and prudence. I was in too
great haste; I overshot the mark, without asking Laurence if she
understood me. How can I, who am ignorant of life, teach its
science? What means do I know how to employ, except the systems,
the rules of conduct, dreamed of at sixteen, beautiful in theory, but
absurd in practice? Is it enough for me to love the good, to stretch
towards an ideal of virtue vague aspirations, the aim of which is
itself uncertain? When reality is before me, I know how little these
desires take practical shape, how powerless I am in the struggle it
offers me. I shall never know how either to bind or conquer it,
ignorant as I am of the way in which to seize it and unable even to
avow to myself what victory I demand. A voice cries out in me that I
do not want the truth, that I do not desire to change it, to transform
what is evil in my sight into good. Let the world which exists stand; I
have the audacity to wish to create a new land, without making use
of the wrecks of the old. Hence, having no solid foundation, the
scaffolding of my dreams crumbles at the slightest shock. I am only
a useless thinker, a platonic lover of the good nursed by vain
reveries, whose power vanishes as soon as he touches the earth.
Brothers, it would be easier for me to give Laurence wings than to
give her a woman's heart.
We are but grown up children. We do not know what to do with that
sublime reality, which comes to us from God and which we spoil at
pleasure by our dreams. We are so awkward in living, that life, for
this reason, becomes bad. Let us learn how to live and evil will
disappear. If I possessed the great art of the real, if I had any
conception of a human paradise, if I could distinguish the chimera
from the possible, I could talk and Laurence would understand me. I
would know how to take possession of her again and set her an
example to follow. The delicate science which revealed to me the
causes of her errors would find a remedy for each wound of her
heart. But what can I do when my ignorance erects a barrier
between her and me? I am the dream, she is the reality. We shall
trudge on side by side without ever meeting, and, our journey
finished, she will not have understood me, I will not have
comprehended her.
I have decided to retrace my steps, in order to take Laurence such
as she is and let her follow the road for which her human feet are
fitted. I have resolved to study life with her, to descend that we may
rise together. Since I am compelled to undertake this rough and
disagreeable task, it is on the lowest step that I desire to start.
Would it not be a recompense great enough if I induced her to give
me all the love of which she is capable? Brothers, I have a well
grounded fear that our dreams are nothing but deceptions; I realize
how weak and puerile they are in the presence of a reality of which I
am vaguely conscious. There are days in which, further off than the
sunlight and the perfumes, further off than those dim visions which I
cannot turn to account, I catch a glimpse of the bold outlines of
what is. And I comprehend that this is life, action and truth, while, in
the surroundings which I have created for myself, move people
strange to man, vain shadows whose eyes do not see me, whose lips
cannot speak to me. The child can be pleased with these cold and
mute friends; afraid of life, it takes refuge in that which does not
live. But we men should not be satisfied with this eternal
nothingness. Our arms are made for work.
Last night, as I was out walking with Laurence, we met a herd of
maskers, packed into a carriage and going to the ball, intoxicated, in
disorder, making a great noise. It is January, the most terrible of all
the months. Poor Laurence was vastly moved by the cries of her
kind. She smiled upon them, and turned that she might see them as
long as possible. It was her former gayety which was passing by, her
carelessness, her mad life so sharp that she could not forget its
biting joys. She returned home sadder than ever and went to bed,
sick of silence and solitude.
This morning, I sold some of my clothes and hired a costume for
Laurence. I announced to her that we would go to the ball in the
evening. She threw herself upon my neck; then, she took possession
of the costume and forgot me. She examined each ribbon, each
spangle; impatient to deck herself, she threw the soiled satin over
her shoulders, intoxicating herself with the rustle of the stuff.
Sometimes she turned, thanking me with a smile. I realized that she
had never before loved me so much, and I could scarcely keep my
hands from snatching the gewgaw which had brought me the
esteem I had failed to acquire with all my kindness.
At last, I had made myself understood. I had ceased to be an
unknown being in her eyes, a frightful compound of austerity and
weariness. I was going to the ball like all the rest; like them, I hired
costumes and amused my friends. I was a charming fellow and, like
everybody else, loved buxom shoulders, cries and oaths. Ah! what
joy! My wisdom was a sham!
Laurence felt herself in a country with which she was acquainted;
she was no longer afraid; she had resumed her freedom of manner
and gave vent to bursts of hearty laughter. Her familiar words, her
easy gestures, filled her with satisfaction. She was perfectly at home
in her present atmosphere.
This was what I wished, but I had hoped that a month of tranquillity,
even though it had not succeeded in reforming her, had at least led
her to forget somewhat her former ways. I had imagined that, when
the mask fell, the face it would disclose would have less pallor about
the lips and more blushes upon the cheeks. I was mistaken. The
mask fallen, I had before me the same faded features, the same
thick and noisy laugh. As this woman was when she entered my
mansarde, rough, vulgar and cynical, so I again found her, after I
had for a month protested against the infamy of her past life, silently
to be sure, but every day. She had learned nothing, she had
forgotten nothing. If her eyes shone with a new expression, it was
only because of the miserable joy she felt on seeing that I seemed,
at last, to have come down to her level. In view of this strange
result, I asked myself if it would not be simply a waste of time to try
again. I had wished for a real Laurence, and this Laurence, through
whom ran a breath of life, terrified me more, perhaps, than the
mournful creature of the past month. But the struggle promised to
be so sharp that I heard, in the depths of my being, my audacity of
twenty revolt at my repugnance and my fright.
As six o'clock struck, although the ball would not begin until
midnight, Laurence began to make her toilet. Soon the chamber was
in complete disorder: water, splashing from the wash-basin and
dripping from the wet towels, flooded the floor; soap lather, fallen
from Laurence's hands, spread out upon the planks in whitish
patches; the comb was on the floor near the hair brush, and various
articles of clothing, forgotten upon the chairs, on the mantelpiece
and in the corners, were soaking amid pools of water. Laurence, to
be more at her ease, had squatted down. She was washing herself
energetically, throwing handfuls of water in her face and upon her
shoulders. Despite this deluge, the soap, covered with dust, left
broad streaks of dirt on her skin. At this she was in despair. Finally,
she emptied the entire contents of the wash-basin over her.
Then she arose, shivering, her shoulders red, and began to use the
towel.
The key had remained in the lock of the door. As Laurence was
rubbing her neck with the icy towel, Pâquerette came in. The old
woman visited us occasionally to get a stick or two from the hearth
with which to kindle her fire, and pity prevented me from driving her
off in disgust.
"Ah! my dear," cried Laurence to her, "come and help me a little. I'm
tired of this wretched rubbing."
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