I glanced at Marie’s eyes. They were wide open, but I searched vainly for the blue glimmer which had burned in them on that night of which she had just spoken.
Marie was dead, dead in my arms.
I carried back the corpse and laid it upon the bed, carefully covering the body which until then I had held against my bosom. I sat down upon the edge of the bed, I leaned the head of the child upon one of my arms, holding her hands, looking at her face which yet seemed to live and smile. She was taller in death, more serene, purer.
Great tears, flowing down my cheeks, fell amid the hair of the dead girl, which covered my knees.
I know not how long I remained thus, amid the silence and the darkness. Suddenly, Pâquerette awoke, she saw the corpse. She arose, all in a tremble, and ran to get the candle behind the vase upon the mantelpiece; then, when she had held the flame before Marie’s lips and had realized that all was, indeed, over, she gave vent to noisy despair. This old woman recoiled with fright from death which she felt beside her; she cried out with grief as she thought that she also must soon die. She had never believed in the sickness of this poor girl, who seemed to her too young to have departed so quickly; before the rapid and terrible dénouement she trembled with terror. Her cries must have been heard in the street.
A sound of footsteps came from the stairway. Some neighbor was ascending, attracted by Pâquerette’s exclamations.
The door opened; Laurence and Jacques appeared upon the threshold.
Oh! brothers, I cannot continue the frightful narrative to-day. My hand trembles, my eyes are filled with gloom. Tomorrow, you shall know all.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
LAURENCE’S DEPARTURE.
LAURENCE and Jacques, confused and frightened, I appeared upon the threshold of the door.
Jacques, on seeing Marie’s corpse, clasped his hands in terror and astonishment. He had not expected such a sudden death. He hurried to the bed, knelt down at its foot, and buried his face in the sheet which was on the point of falling to the floor. Deep anguish seemed to be crushing him. He did not stir. I could not tell whether he was weeping or not.
Laurence, pale, her eyes dry, remained upon the threshold, not daring to advance. She quivered and turned away her glances.
“Dead! dead!” she murmured, in a low voice.
And she took two or three steps, as if to see the better. Then, she stood still in the middle of the chamber, alone.
As for me, I yet held the corpse in my arms, I covered myself with it, I protected myself against Laurence who was approaching.
“Do not advance,” cried I to her, harshly, “do not come here to soil this child who is sleeping. Remain where you are. I have to judge and condemn you.”
“Claude,” she answered, in a meek voice, “let me kiss her.”
“No, no, your lips are all bruised with Jacques’ kisses. You would profane the dead.”
Jacques seemed to be asleep, his head in the sheet. Laurence fell upon her knees.
“Listen, Claude,” she said, stretching out her hands towards me: “I know not what you see upon my lips, but do not speak to me with such harshness. I have need of gentleness.”
I stared at this woman, who was humbly complaining, and I failed to recognize Laurence. I clasped Marie closer, fearing some weakness.
“Arise and listen to me,” I cried out to Laurence: “I wish to make an end of this. You come from Jacques’ room. You should not have come here. You opened the wrong door.”
Laurence arose.
“Then, it is your intention to drive me away, is it?” asked she.
“It is not I who drive you away. You have driven yourself away by accepting another asylum. Remain in that asylum.”
“I have not chosen another asylum. You are deceived, Claude. There are no strange kisses upon my lips. I love you.”
She advanced timidly, fascinating, her arms outstretched.
“Do not approach, do not approach,” I cried again, with a movement of fright. “I do not wish you to touch me, I do not wish you to touch Marie. The poor dead girl protects me against you; she is here, upon my breast, asleep; she calms my heart. I feel myself terribly torn. I should, perhaps, have had the baseness to pardon you, if you had come into our chamber and there dragged yourself at my feet, for there you would have been all-powerful over me, by reason of that infamous love with which misery and abandonment have inspired me. Here, you can exert no influence over my heart, no influence over my body. I still have upon my lips Marie’s soul, her last breath and her last kiss. I do not wish your soiled mouth to take that soul from me.”
Laurence paused, sobbing, gazing at me through her tears.
“Claude,” murmured she, “you do not understand me, you have never understood me. I love you. I never knew what you wanted of me; I gave myself as I knew how to give myself. Why do you drive me away? I have done no evil; if you think I have done evil, you can beat me and we will still live in company.”
I was weary, I felt my heart bleed; I was in haste to see this woman depart, I implored her in my turn.
“Laurence,” said I, more gently, “in pity go away. If you have ever had any love for me, spare me further suffering. Our tenderness for each other is dead, we must separate. Go forth into life, where you will, but take the path that leads to goodness and happiness, if you can. Let me recover my hope and my gayety.”
She folded her arms in despair, repeating several times, in a wild tone:
“All is over, all is over!”
“Yes, all is over,” answered I, with emphasis.
Then, Laurence fell upon the floor in a mass, and burst into violent sobs.
Pâquerette, who had tranquilly resumed possession of her armchair, looked at her with curiosity. The old wretch was filled with astonishment, chewing some lozenges which she had just found, Marie not having lived long enough to finish the box.
“Ah! my child,” said she to Laurence, “have you also lost your senses? Great heavens I what fools lovers are in these days! In my time, people quitted each other gayly. Do you not see that it is greatly to your advantage to separate from Claude. He consents. Thank him, and depart at once.”
Laurence did not hear her, she was striking the floor with her feet and with her fists, a prey to a sort of nervous crisis. Lightly clad, she twisted, panting, full of quivers which shook her all over. She bit her hair which had fallen over her face, she uttered half stifled cries, confused words which were lost amid her sobs.
I saw her from head to foot, crushed and quivering; I felt neither pity nor anger.
Then, she got upon her knees, and, her face convulsed, her flesh reddened and blued by tears, dragging herself towards me in her twisted and hanging skirts, she cried out:
“You are right, Claude, I am bad. I prefer to speak the truth, to tell you everything. You will, perhaps, pardon me afterwards. Your eyes have rightly seen: my lips should be red with Jacques’ kisses. I went to him, I forced him to treason. I am a wicked wretch!” Her sobs convulsed her bosom. They mounted from the depths of her being in enormous and painful breaths, swelled her throat horribly, made her whole body undulate, burst from her lips in hollow and heartrending cries.
“Have mercy upon me,” murmured she. “I did not know that Jacques’ kisses would separate us. I acted without reflection, without thinking of you. I grew weary sometimes, in the evening, when you came to this chamber. Then, I sought to amuse myself. That is the true state of the case; it admits of no other explanation. I do not wish to quit you. Pardon me, pardon me!”
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