Strong as Death

Never had such sadness, such discouragement, such a sensation of having reached the end of everything, the end of his mental and physical being, thrown him into such desperate distress of soul. He sat until two o’clock in his armchair, before the fireplace, his legs extended toward the fire, not having strength to move, or to do anything. Then the need of being consoled rose within him, the need to clasp devoted hands, to see faithful eyes, to be pitied, succored, caressed with friendly words. So he went, as usual, to the Countess.

When he entered Annette was alone in the drawing-room, standing with her back toward him, hastily writing the address on a letter. On a table beside her lay a copy of Figaro. Bertin saw the journal at the moment that he saw the young girl and was bewildered, not daring to advance! Oh, if she had read it! She turned, and in a preoccupied, hurried way, her mind haunted with feminine cares, she said to him:

“Ah, good-morning, sir painter! You will excuse me if I leave you? I have a dressmaker upstairs who claims me. You understand that a dressmaker, at the time of a wedding, is very important. I will lend you mamma, who is talking and arguing with my artist. If I need her I will call her for a few minutes.”

And she hastened away, running a little, to show how much she was hurried.

This abrupt departure, without a word of affection, without a tender look for him who loved her so much – so much! – quite upset him. His eyes rested again on the Figaro, and he thought: “She has read it! They laugh at me, they deny me. She no longer believes in me. I am nothing to her any more.”

He took two steps toward the journal, as one walks toward a man to strike him. Then he said to himself: “Perhaps she has not read it, after all. She is so preoccupied to-day. But someone will undoubtedly speak of it before her, perhaps this evening, at dinner, and that will make her curious to read it.”

With a spontaneous, almost unthinking, movement he took the copy, closed it, folded it, and slipped it into his pocket with the swiftness of a thief.

The Countess entered. As soon as she saw Olivier’s convulsed and livid face, she guessed that he had reached the limit of suffering.

She hastened toward him, with an impulse from all her poor soul, so agonized also, and from her poor body, that was itself so wounded. Throwing her hands upon his shoulders, and plunging her glance into the depths of his eyes, she said:

“Oh, how unhappy you are!”

This time he did not deny it; his throat swelled with a spasm of pain, and he stammered:

“Yes – yes – yes!”

She felt that he was near weeping, and led him into the darkest corner of the drawing-room, toward two armchairs hidden by a small screen of antique silk. They sat down behind this slight embroidered wall, veiled also by the gray shadow of a rainy day.

She resumed, pitying him, deeply moved by his grief:

“My poor Olivier, how you suffer!”

He leaned his white head on the shoulder of his friend.

“More than you believe!” he said.

“Oh, I knew it! I have felt it all. I saw it from the beginning and watched it grow.”

He answered as if she had accused him: “It is not my faulty, Any.”

“I know it well; I do not reproach you for it.”

And softly, turning a little, she laid her lips on one of Olivier’s eyes, where she found a bitter tear.

She started, as if she had just tasted a drop of despair, and repeated several times:

“Ah, poor friend – poor friend – poor friend!”

Then after a moment of silence she added: “It is the fault of our hearts, which never have grown old. I feel that my own is full of life!”

He tried to speak but could not, for now his sobs choked him. She listened, as he leaned against her, to the struggle in his breast. Then, seized by the selfish anguish of love, which had gnawed at her heart so long, she said in the agonized tone in which one realizes a horrible misfortune:

“God! how you love her!”

Again he confessed: “Ah, yes! I love her!”

She reflected a few moments, then continued: “You never have loved me thus?”

He did not deny it, for he was passing through one of those periods in which one speaks with absolute truth, and he murmured:

“No, I was too young then.”

She was surprised.

“Too young? Why?”

“Because life was too sweet. It is only at our age that one loves despairingly.”

“Does the love you feel for her resemble that which you felt for me?” the Countess asked.

“Yes and no – and yet it is almost the same thing. I have loved you as much as anyone can love a woman. As for her, I love her just as I loved you, since she is yourself; but this love has become something irresistible, destroying, stronger than death. I belong to it as a burning house belongs to the fire.”

She felt her sympathy wither up under a breath of jealousy; but, assuming a consoling tone, she said:

“My poor friend! In a few days she will be married and gone. When you see her no more no doubt you will be cured of this fancy.”

He shook his head.

“Oh, I am lost, lost, lost!”

“No, no, I say! It will be three months before you see her again. That will be sufficient. Three months were quite enough for you to love her more than you love me, whom you have known for twelve years!”

Then, in his infinite distress, he implored: “Any, do not abandon me!”

“What can I do, my friend?”

“Do not leave me alone.”

“I will go to see you as often as you wish.”

“No. Keep me here as much as possible.”

“But then you would be near her.”

“And near you!”

“You must not see her any more before her marriage.”

“Oh, Any!”

“Well, at least, not often.”