"I had loved her madly!
"Why does one love? Why does one love? How queer it is to see
only one being in the world, to have only one thought in one's
mind, only one desire in the heart, and only one name on the
lips--a name which comes up continually, rising, like the water
in a spring, from the depths of the soul to the lips, a name
which one repeats over and over again, which one whispers
ceaselessly, everywhere, like a prayer.
"I am going to tell you our story, for love only has one, whichis always the same. I met her and loved her; that is all. And fora whole year I have lived on her tenderness, on her caresses, in
her arms, in her dresses, on her words, so completely wrapped up,
bound, and absorbed in everything which came from her, that I no
longer cared whether it was day or night, or whether I was dead
or alive, on this old earth of ours.
"And then she died. How? I do not know; I no longer know
anything. But one evening she came home wet, for it was raining
heavily, and the next day she coughed, and she coughed for about
a week, and took to her bed. What happened I do not remember now,
but doctors came, wrote, and went away. Medicines were brought,
and some women made her drink them. Her hands were hot, her
forehead was burning, and her eyes bright and sad. When I spoke
to her, she answered me, but I do not remember what we said. I
have forgotten everything, everything, everything! She died, and
I very well remember her slight, feeble sigh. The nurse said:
'Ah!' and I understood, I understood!
"I knew nothing more, nothing. I saw a priest, who said: 'Your
mistress?' and it seemed to me as if he were insulting her. As
she was dead, nobody had the right to say that any longer, and I
turned him out. Another came who was very kind and tender, and I
shed tears when he spoke to me about her.
"They consulted me about the funeral, but I do not remember
anything that they said, though I recollected the coffin, and the
sound of the hammer when they nailed her down in it. Oh! God,
God!
"She was buried! Buried! She! In that hole! Some people
came--female friends. I made my escape and ran away. I ran, and
then walked through the streets, went home, and the next day
started on a journey.
* * * * * * *
"Yesterday I returned to Paris, and when I saw my room again--our
room, our bed, our furniture, everything that remains of the life
of a human being after death--I was seized by such a violent
attack of fresh grief, that I felt like opening the window and
throwing myself out into the street. I could not remain any
longer among these things, between these walls which had inclosed
and sheltered her, which retained a thousand atoms of her, of her
skin and of her breath, in their imperceptible crevices. I took
up my hat to make my escape, and just as I reached the door, I
passed the large glass in the hall, which she had put there so
that she might look at herself every day from head to foot as she
went out, to see if her toilette looked well, and was correct and
pretty, from her little boots to her bonnet.
"I stopped short in front of that looking-glass in which she had
so often been reflected--so often, so often, that it must have
retained her reflection. I was standing there. trembling, with my
eyes fixed on the glass--on that flat, profound, empty
glass--which had contained her entirely, and had possessed her as
much as I, as my passionate looks had. I felt as if I loved that
glass. I touched it; it was cold. Oh! the recollection! sorrowful
mirror, burning mirror, horrible mirror, to make men suffer such
torments! Happy is the man whose heart forgets everything that it
has contained, everything that has passed before it, everything
that has looked at itself in it, or has been reflected in its
affection, in its love! How I suffer!
"I went out without knowing it, without wishing it, and toward
the cemetery. I found her simple grave, a white marble cross,
with these few words:
" 'She loved, was loved, and died.'
"She is there, below, decayed! How horrible! I sobbed with my
forehead on the ground, and I stopped there for a long time, a
long time. Then I saw that it was getting dark, and a strange,
mad wish, the wish of a despairing lover, seized me. I wished to
pass the night, the last night, in weeping on her grave. But I
should be seen and driven out. How was I to manage? I was
cunning, and got up and began to roam about in that city of the
dead. I walked and walked. How small this city is, in comparison
with the other, the city in which we live. And yet, how much more
numerous the dead are than the living. We want high houses, wide
streets, and much room for the four generations who see the
daylight at the same time, drink water from the spring, and wine
from the vines, and eat bread from the plains.
"And for all the generations of the dead, for all that ladder of
humanity that has descended down to us, there is scarcely
anything, scarcely anything! The earth takes them back, and
oblivion effaces them. Adieu!
"At the end of the cemetery, I suddenly perceived that I was in
its oldest part, where those who had been dead a long time are
mingling with the soil, where the crosses themselves are decayed,
where possibly newcomers will be put to-morrow. It is full of
untended roses, of strong and dark cypress-trees, a sad and
beautiful garden, nourished on human flesh.
"I was alone, perfectly alone. So I crouched in a green tree and
hid myself there completely amid the thick and somber branches. I
waited, clinging to the stem, like a shipwrecked man does to a
plank.
"When it was quite dark, I left my refuge and began to walk
softly, slowly, inaudibly, through that ground full of dead
people. I wandered about for a long time, but could not find her
tomb again. I went on with extended arms, knocking against the
tombs with my hands, my feet, my knees, my chest, even with my
head, without being able to find her. I groped about like a blind
man finding his way, I felt the stones, the crosses, the iron
railings, the metal wreaths, and the wreaths of faded flowers! I
read the names with my fingers, by passing them over the letters.
What a night! What a night! I could not find her again!
"There was no moon. What a night! I was frightened, horribly
frightened in these narrow paths, between two rows of graves.
Graves! graves! graves! nothing but graves! On my right, on my
left, in front of me, around me, everywhere there were graves! I
sat down on one of them, for I could not walk any longer, my
knees were so weak. I could hear my heart beat! And I heard
something else as well. What? A confused, nameless noise. Was the
noise in my head, in the impenetrable night, or beneath the
mysterious earth, the earth sown with human corpses? I looked all
around me, but I cannot say how long I remained there; I was
paralyzed with terror, cold with fright, ready to shout out,
ready to die.
"Suddenly, it seemed to me that the slab of marble on which I was
sitting, was moving. Certainly it was moving, as if it were being
raised. With a bound, I sprang on to the neighboring tomb, and I
saw, yes, I distinctly saw the stone which I had just quitted
rise upright. Then the dead person appeared, a naked skeleton,
pushing the stone back with its bent back. I saw it quite
clearly, although the night was so dark. On the cross I could
read:
" 'Here lies Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of fifty-one.
He loved his family, was kind and honorable, and died in the
grace of the Lord.'
"The dead man also read what was inscribed on his tombstone; then
he picked up a stone off the path, a little, pointed stone and
began to scrape the letters carefully. He slowly effaced them,
and with the hollows of his eyes he looked at the places where
they had been engraved. Then with the tip of the bone that had
been his forefinger, he wrote in luminous letters, like those
lines which boys trace on walls with the tip of a lucifer match:
" 'Here reposes Jacques Olivant, who died at the age of
fifty-one. He hastened his father's death by his unkindness, as
he wished to inherit his fortune, he tortured his wife, tormented
his children, deceived his neighbors, robbed everyone he could,
and died wretched.'
"When he had finished writing, the dead man stood motionless,
looking at his work. On turning round I saw that all the graves
were open, that all the dead bodies had emerged from them, and
that all had effaced the lies inscribed on the gravestones by
their relations, substituting the truth instead. And I saw that
all had been the tormentors of their neighbors--malicious,
dishonest, hypocrites, liars, rogues, calumniators, envious; that
they had stolen, deceived, performed every disgraceful, every
abominable action, these good fathers, these faithful wives,
these devoted sons, these chaste daughters, these honest
tradesmen, these men and women who were called irreproachable.
They were all writing at the same time, on the threshold of their
eternal abode, the truth, the terrible and the holy truth of
which everybody was ignorant, or pretended to be ignorant, while
they were alive.
"I thought that SHE also must have written something on her
tombstone, and now running without any fear among the half-open
coffins, among the corpses and skeletons, I went toward her, sure
that I should find her immediately. I recognized her at once,
without seeing her face, which was covered by the winding-sheet,
and on the marble cross, where shortly before I had read:
" 'She loved, was loved, and died.'
I now saw:
" 'Having gone out in the rain one day, in order to deceive her
lover, she caught cold and died.'
* * * * * * *
"It appears that they found me at daybreak, lying on the grave
unconscious."
