my God! Endue them with strength, cast Thy mercy upon them."
And Marguérite began to speak. The words issued from her throat one by one, raucous, with sharp pauses, as though very feeble.
"Pardon, pardon, Big Sister; oh, forgive! If thou knewest how I have had fear of this moment all my life…"
Suzanne stammered through her tears:
"Forgive thee what, Little One? Thou hast given all to me, sacrificed everything; thou art an angel…"
But Marguérite interrupted her:
"Hush, hush! Let me speak … do not stop me. It is dreadful … let me tell all … to the very end, without flinching. Listen. Thou rememberest … thou rememberest … Henry…"
Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The younger continued:
"Thou must hear all, to understand. I was twelve years old, only twelve years old; thou rememberest well, is it not so? And I was spoiled, I did everything that I liked! Thou rememberest, surely, how they spoiled me? Listen. The first time that he came he had varnished boots. He got down from his horse at the great steps, and he begged pardon for his costume, but he came to bring some news to papa. Thou rememberest, is it not so? Don't speak – listen. When I saw him I was completely carried away, I found him so very beautiful; and I remained standing in a corner of the salon all the time that he was talking. Children are strange … and terrible. Oh yes … I have dreamed of all that.
"He came back again … several times … I looked at him with all my eyes, with all my soul … I was large of my age … and very much more knowing than anyone thought. He came back often … I thought only of him. I said, very low:
"'Henry … Henry de Lampierre!'
"Then they said that he was going to marry thee. It was a sorrow; oh, Big Sister, a sorrow … a sorrow! I cried for three nights without sleeping. He came back every day, in the afternoon, after his lunch … thou rememberest, is it not so? Say nothing … listen. Thou madest him cakes which he liked … with meal, with butter and milk. Oh, I know well how. I could make them yet if it were needed. He ate them at one mouthful, and … and then he drank a glass of wine, and then he said, 'It is delicious.' Thou rememberest how he would say that?
"I was jealous, jealous! The moment of thy marriage approached. There were only two weeks more. I became crazy. I said to myself: 'He shall not marry Suzanne, no, I will not have it! It is I whom he will marry when I am grown up. I shall never find anyone whom I love so much.' But one night, ten days before the contract, thou tookest a walk with him in front of the chateau by moonlight … and there … under the fir, under the great fir … he kissed thee … kissed … holding thee in his two arms … so long. Thou rememberest, is it not so? It was probably the first time … yes … Thou wast so pale when thou earnest back to the salon.
"I had seen you two; I was there, in the shrubbery. I was angry! If I could I should have killed you both!
"I said to myself: 'He shall not marry Suzanne, never! He shall marry no one. I should be too unhappy.' And all of a sudden I began to hate him dreadfully.
"Then, dost thou know what I did? Listen. I had seen the gardener making little balls to kill strange dogs. He pounded up a bottle with a stone and put the powdered glass in a little ball of meat.
"I took a little medicine bottle that mamma had; I broke it small with a hammer, and I hid the glass in my pocket. It was a shining powder … The next day, as soon as you had made the little cakes … I split them with a knife and I put in the glass … He ate three of them … I too, I ate one … I threw the other six into the pond. The two swans died three days after … Dost thou remember? Oh, say nothing … listen, listen. I, I alone did not die … but I have always been sick. Listen … He died – thou knowest well … listen … that, that is nothing. It is afterwards, later … always … the worst … listen.
"My life, all my life … what torture! I said to myself: 'I will never leave my sister. And at the hour of death I will tell her all …' There! And ever since, I have always thought of that moment when I should tell thee all. Now it is come. It is terrible. Oh … Big Sister!
"I have always thought, morning and evening, by night and by day, 'Some time I must tell her that …' I waited … What agony! … It is done. Say nothing. Now I am afraid … am afraid … oh, I am afraid. If I am going to see him again, soon, when I am dead. See him again … think of it! The first! Before thou! I shall not dare. I must … I am going to die … I want you to forgive me. I want it … I cannot go off to meet him without that. Oh, tell her to forgive me, Monsieur le Curé, tell her … I implore you to do it. I cannot die without that…"
She was silent, and remained panting, always scratching the sheet with her withered nails.
Suzanne had hidden her face in her hands, and did not move. She was thinking of him whom she might have loved so long! What a good life they should have lived together! She saw him once again in that vanished bygone time, in that old past which was put out forever. The beloved dead – how they tear your hearts! Oh, that kiss, his only kiss! She had hidden it in her soul. And after it nothing, nothing more her whole life long!
All of a sudden the priest stood straight, and, with a strong vibrant voice, he cried:
"Mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying!"
Then Suzanne, opening her hands, showed her face soaked with tears, and throwing herself upon her sister, she kissed her with all her might, stammering:
"I forgive thee, I forgive thee, Little One."
The Horla, or Modern Ghosts
May 8th. What a lovely day! I have spent all the morning lying in the grass in front of my house, under the enormous plantain tree which covers it, and shades and shelters the whole of it. I like this part of the country and I am fond of living here because I am attached to it by deep roots, profound and delicate roots which attach a man to the soil on which his ancestors were born and died, which attach him to what people think and what they eat, to the usages as well as to the food, local expressions, the peculiar language of the peasants, to the smell of the soil, of the villages and of the atmosphere itself.
I love my house in which I grew up. From my windows I can see the Seine which flows by the side of my garden, on the other side of the road, almost through my grounds, the great and wide Seine, which goes to Rouen and Havre, and which is covered with boats passing to and fro.
On the left, down yonder, lies Rouen, that large town with its blue roofs, under its pointed Gothic towers. They are innumerable, delicate or broad, dominated by the spire of the cathedral, and full of bells which sound through the blue air on fine mornings, sending their sweet and distant iron clang to me; their metallic sound which the breeze wafts in my direction, now stronger and now weaker, according as the wind is stronger or lighter.
What a delicious morning it was!
About eleven o'clock, a long line of boats drawn by a steam tug, as big as a fly, and which scarcely puffed while emitting its thick smoke, passed my gate.
After two English schooners, whose red flag fluttered toward the sky, there came a magnificent Brazilian three-master; it was perfectly white and wonderfully clean and shining. I saluted it, I hardly know why, except that the sight of the vessel gave me great pleasure.
May 12th. I have had a slight feverish attack for the last few days, and I feel ill, or rather I feel low-spirited.
Whence
