who was dying was no more disturbed, in life, by the kisses she had given her admirers than a little girl is disturbed by the caresses which she gives her doll. And Laurence, sad and desolate Laurence, showed such degradation that her shamelessness was no more than the tacit acceptance of a purely material act. Where shall we find the evil in all this, and who would dare to punish Laurence and Marie, the one for her brutishness, the other for her ignorance? The heart had fallen asleep, or had not yet been awakened. It could not be the accomplice of the flesh, which itself remained innocent in its silence. If I had had to condemn these two women, I would have had more tears than severity, I would have desired for them death, supreme peace.
They ought to sleep very soundly in their tombs, these poor creatures who have lived amid tumult and feverish gayety. Perhaps, nevertheless, their hearts will love at last in death, suffering frightfully at the thought of a life passed in loving without love; they would struggle now, but they are nailed in their coffin. Marie was departing, white and pure, astonished, quivering, realizing, perhaps, that she was dying before having known life. I wished that she could take with her Laurence who had no more to learn, having exhausted every pleasure. They would both descend into the unknown with the same step, equally soiled, equally innocent, daughters of God bruised by men.
I was supporting Marie’s head, which was weighed down with agony.
“Where is Jacques?” she asked.
“Jacques,” I replied, “is with Laurence. They have abandoned us; we are alone.”
“Alone! Has Laurence left you, Claude?”
“Yes. She has left me. We are alone.”
She gently rubbed her hands one against the other.
“Oh! it is good, oh I it is good to be alone,” murmured she; “we can live under the same roof. They have done well to arrange matters in this way. We owe them our thanks. May they be happy on their side; we will be happy on ours.”
Then, she assumed a tone of confidence, and said, in a low and joyous voice:
“You never knew it, but I did not like Laurence. She was bad to you; she made you shed tears which I would willingly have dried. At night, I could not sleep; I was rude even to Jacques; I wished to ascend to your chamber to watch over you, in order that she might not harm you. You will never leave me again, will you, Claude? I will be a good little woman, and will take up as small a space as possible.”
Marie maintained silence for a short time, smiling at her thoughts. She was growing weaker and weaker, she was becoming inert. I supported her form, I felt the life quitting her flesh with every word she uttered. She had now but a few minutes to live. Her smile faded away, she seemed to be stricken with fear.
“You are deceiving me, Claude,” she suddenly resumed: “Laurence is not in Jacques’ chamber. You are trying to please me. Have you ever seen him kiss her?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“Over there, opposite, upon the wall.”
Marie clasped her hands.
“I wish to see,” said she, pressing against me.
She had a hollow and supplicating voice; she caressed me, humbly and gently.
I took her in my arms and lifted her from the bed. She was very light, all palpitating; she abandoned herself to my grasp. I carried her cautiously, scarcely feeling her weight, fearing to hurt her. My hands touched with a holy respect this poor, dishevelled creature, who clung to my neck, belonging already to death.
When, with outstretched arms I held her before the window, Marie, whose head was thrown back, looked at the sky. The heavens were of a deep blue, sown with stars; the calm air was full of warm, slow quivers.
The eyes of the dying girl were fixed upon the stars, she breathed the lukewarm air. Her visage, until then resigned, had a painful contraction, like a revolt of the expiring flesh in the presence of the breath of life. She was absorbed in her contemplation, her glance wandered about in the sombre space, she seemed to be dreaming her last dream.
I heard her murmur and bent down. She said:
“I do not see them, they are not kissing.”
And she gently agitated her poor hands in the air, as if to tear away the veil which was stretched before her sight.
Then, I lifted up her head. The shadows, in the square patch of yellow light, were still kissing. They were blacker, more energetic, and their sharpness made them frightful. Marie saw them.
A glad smile showed itself upon her lips. With childish joy, with a youthful voice, she approached my ear, caressing me with her hand.
“Oh! I see them, I see them,” she said. “They are kissing. They have enormous heads, all black. I am afraid. Tell them that we are together, that they must come no more to torment us. One night they kissed each other thus; we also kissed on our side, and it was from that moment that I no longer liked Laurence. Do you remember that night? Come closer that I may kiss you. It will be our second kiss, that of our betrothal.”
Marie tremblingly placed her mouth against mine. I felt pass between my lips a breath accompanied by a slight cry. The body which I held in my arms had a convulsion, then relaxed.
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