the closest intimacy for many years. He understood perfectly my love for my mistress and had several times intimated that bonds of this kind were sacred to a friend, and that he would be incapable of an attempt to supplant me even if he loved the same woman. In short, I had perfect confidence in him and I had perhaps never pressed the hand of any human creature more cordially than his.
My glance was eager and curious as I scrutinized this man whom I had heard speak of love as an antique hero and whom I had caught caressing my mistress. It was the first time in my life I had seen a monster; I measured him with a haggard eye to see how he was made. He whom I had known since he was ten years old, with whom I had lived in the most perfect friendship, it seemed to me I had never seen him. Allow me a comparison.
There is a Spanish play, familiar to all the world, in which a stone statue comes to sup with a debauchee, sent thither by divine justice. The debauchee puts a good face on the matter and forces himself to affect indifference; but the statue asks for his hand, and when he has extended it he feels himself seized by a mortal chill and falls in convulsions.
Whenever I have loved and confided in any one, either friend or mistress, and suddenly discover that I have been deceived, I can only describe the effect produced on me by comparing it to the clasp of that marble hand. It is the actual impression of marble, it is as though a man of stone had kissed me. Alas! this horrible apparition has knocked more than once at my door; more than once we have supped together.
When the arrangements were all made we placed ourselves in line, facing each other and slowly advancing. My adversary fired the first shot, wounding me in the right arm. I immediately seized my pistol in the other hand; but my strength failed, I could not raise it; I fell on one knee.
Then I saw my enemy running up to me with an expression of great anxiety on his face, and very pale. My seconds hastened to my side, seeing that I was wounded; but he pushed them aside and seized my wounded arm. His teeth were set and I could see that he was suffering intense anguish. His agony was the most frightful that man can experience.
"Go!" he cried, "go dress your wound at the house of—"
He choked, and so did I.
I was placed in a cab where I found a physician. My wound was not dangerous, the bone being untouched, but I was in such a state of excitation that it was impossible to properly dress my wound. As they were about to drive from the field I saw a trembling hand at the door of my cab; it was my adversary. I shook my head in reply; I was in such a rage that I could not pardon him, although I felt that his repentance was sincere.
By the time I reached home I had lost much blood and felt relieved, for feebleness saved me from the force of anger which was doing me more harm than my wound. I willingly retired to my bed and called for a glass of water, which I quickly swallowed with relish.
But I was soon attacked by fever. It was then I began to shed tears. I could understand that my mistress had ceased to love me, but not that she could deceive me. I could not comprehend why a woman who was forced to it by neither duty nor interest could lie to one man when she loved another. Twenty times a day I asked my friend Desgenais how that could be possible.
"If I were her husband," I said, "or if I supported her I could easily understand how she might be tempted to deceive me; but if she no longer loves me, why deceive me?"
I did not understand how any one could lie for love; I was but a child then, but I confess that I do not understand it yet. Every time I have loved a woman I have told her of it, and when I ceased to love her I confessed it to her with the same sincerity, having always thought that in matters of this kind the will was not concerned and that there was no crime but falsehood.
To all this Desgenais replied:
"She is unworthy; promise me that you will never see her again."
I solemnly promised. He advised me, moreover, not to write to her, not even to reproach her, and if she wrote to me not to reply. I promised all that with some surprise that he should consider it necessary to exact such a promise.
Nevertheless the first thing I did when I was able to leave my room was to visit my mistress. I found her alone, seated in the corner of the room with an expression of sorrow on her face and an appearance of general disorder in her surroundings. I overwhelmed her with violent reproaches; I was intoxicated with despair. In a paroxysm of grief I fell on the bed and gave free course to my tears.
"Ah! faithless one! wretch!" I cried between my sobs, "you knew that it would kill me. Did the prospect please you? What have I done to you?"
She threw her arms around my neck, saying that she had been seduced, that my rival had intoxicated her at that fatal supper, but that she had never been his; that she had abandoned herself in a moment of forgetfulness; that she had committed a fault but not a crime; but that if I would not pardon her, she, too, would die. All that sincere repentance has of tears, all that sorrow has of eloquence, she exhausted to console me; pale and distressed, her dress deranged and her hair falling over her shoulders she kneeled in the middle of her chamber; never have I seen anything so beautiful and I shuddered with horror as my senses revolted at the sight.
I went away crushed, scarcely able to direct my tottering steps. I wished never to see her again; but in a quarter of an hour I returned. I do not know what desperate resolve I had formed; I experienced a dull desire to possess her once more, to drain the cup of tears and bitterness to the dregs and then to die with her. In short, I abhorred her and I idolized her; I felt that her love was my ruin, but that to live without her was impossible. I mounted the stairs like a flash; I spoke to none of the servants, but, familiar with the house, opened the door of her chamber.
I found her seated calmly before her toilet-table, covered with jewels; she held in her hand a piece of crepe which she passed gently over her cheeks. I thought I was dreaming; it did not seem possible that this was the woman I had left, just fifteen minutes before, overwhelmed with grief, abased to the floor; I was as motionless as a statue. She, hearing the door open, turned her head and smiled:
"Is it you?" she said.
She was going to the ball and was expecting my rival. As she recognized me, she compressed her lips and frowned.
I started to leave the room. I looked at her bare neck, lithe and perfumed, on which rested her knotted hair confined by a jeweled comb; that neck, the seat of vital force, was blacker than Hades; two shining tresses had fallen there and some light silvern hairs balanced above it. Her shoulders and neck, whiter than milk, displayed a heavy growth of down. There was in that knotted head of hair something indescribably immodest which seemed to mock me when I thought of the disorder in which I had seen her a moment before. I suddenly stepped up to her and struck that neck with the back of my hand. My mistress gave vent to a cry of terror, and fell on her hands, while I hastened from the room.
When I reached my room I was again attacked by fever and was obliged to take to my bed. My wound had reopened and I suffered great pain. Desgenais came to see me and I told him what had happened. He listened in silence, then paced up and down the room as though undecided as to his course. Finally he stopped before my bed and burst out laughing.
"Is she your first mistress?" he asked.
"No!" I replied, "she is my last."
Toward midnight, while sleeping restlessly, I seemed to hear in my dreams a profound sigh. I opened my eyes and saw my mistress standing near my bed with arms crossed, looking like a specter. I could not restrain a cry of fright, believing it to be an apparition conjured up by my diseased brain. I leaped from my bed and fled to the farther end of the room; but
