THE 
 
 SACRIFICE OF SILENCE 
 
 BY 
 
 EDOUARD ROD 
 
 TRANSLATED BY 
 
 JOHN W. HARDING 
 
 "Are there not cases when thanks to the 
 aberrations of the social organization and to 
 social prejudices, lying, deceit and hypocrisy 
 almost become virtues? Are there not cases 
 when recourse to base actions is so painful that 
 to perpetrate them may be the most heroic of 
 sacrifices?" — Page 17. 
 
 MS? 
 
 NEW YORK 
 G. W. D tiling /i am Co., Publishers 
 
 MDCCCXCIX.
 
 Copyright 1899, by 
 G. W. DILLINGHAM COMPANY. 
 
 \All rights reserved.'^ 
 
 The Sacrifice of Silence,
 
 TQ 
 
 o 
 
 
 '7 
 
 '■/t^ 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 
 PART I. 
 
 
 
 PACK 
 
 A Conversation .... 
 
 . 13 
 
 PART II. 
 
 
 A History — Kermoysan 
 
 21 
 
 PART III. 
 
 
 Another Conversation 
 
 . it;o 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 Another History— To the End of the Fault. 164 
 M. de Sourbelles's Love Tragedy . .185 
 
 Epilogue 222 
 
 [5]
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 Emerson somewhere, and truly, observes that 
 there is a strange power in silence. But there 
 are many kinds of silence. This has been tritely 
 attested from time immemorial by axioms and 
 epigrams laudatory of timely mutism as being at 
 once one of the virtues of the wise, the ornament 
 and safeguard of the ignorant, and an efficacious 
 element of repute, whether deserved or not. 
 Then there is that silence, " the child of love, 
 which expresses everything and proclaims more 
 loudly than tongue is able to do;" which is " the 
 ecstatic bliss of souls that by intelligence con- 
 verse." 
 
 The particular phases of silence of which M. 
 Rod treats have nothing in common with these, 
 save incidentally with that which is the so elo- 
 quent offspring of love. He shows, with con- 
 summate art and in two widely contrasting ex- 
 amples, that silence under certain conditions 
 constitutes an heroic sacrifice, so generous in its 
 abnegation, and in one case, in which the un- 
 blemished reputation of a wife and mother is 
 
 [7]
 
 8 Preface, 
 
 involved, so unflinchingly steadfast, as to impart 
 a character of nobleness and grandeur to the sin 
 of prohibited love and its inevitable accompani- 
 ments, lying, deceit and hypocrisy. 
 
 Whether Andre Kermoysan and Mme. Hfr- 
 DEViN succumbed to the passion they mutually 
 inspired, which at immensurable sacrifice they 
 masked from the world, and whose secret they 
 carried with them into that dread and most mys- 
 terious of all silences, the silence of the tomb, is 
 a moot question that is left for the reader to de- 
 cide for himself. 
 
 The case of Mme. H and M. de Sour- 
 belles is an entirely different one. They capitu- 
 lated to their mad love without resistance, in open 
 defiance of the conventions. Spurned by the 
 world whose moral laws they outraged, bound 
 together by their common fault, by a bond 
 " stronger than any invented by man," they iso- 
 lated themselves, caring for nothing, desiring 
 nothing but each other's society, to be all in all 
 to each other. But in due course the tie which 
 might not be severed became a shackle, weari- 
 some, irksome, insupportable; their paradise was 
 transformed into a hell of dead love, dead senti- 
 ment, and remorse. It was in these circum- 
 stances that the sacrifice of silence was made and 
 stoically borne by each. Their life was a terri- 
 ble lie. They endeavored with the cunning of 
 despair to conceal from each o":her their inward 
 martyrdom, and played the comedy of an endur-
 
 Preface. 9 
 
 ing affection until death tragically rang down 
 the curtain. 
 
 The " Sacrifice of Silence " is a psychological 
 study of great power and is unique in that the 
 heart of man is the subject. The heart of wo- 
 man has been laid bare, dissected, analysed by 
 psychologists of all times — and it remains as 
 much an enigma as ever. But in this fascinating 
 pursuit the enigmatical heart of man has been 
 largely overlooked. M. Rod has taken it in hand, 
 subjected it to a microscopical examination, and 
 sets forth in masterful manner what his re- 
 searches have revealed. 
 
 The success of his efforts was instantaneous 
 and striking in France, where the book has gone 
 through many editions. During his recent so- 
 journ in this country, which he visited for the 
 purpose of lecturing in the principal universities 
 and colleges, M. Rod frequently intimated tome 
 in discussing his literary work that he considered 
 this novel to be the best he had written. I have 
 endeavored to preserve the author's style as 
 closely as the exigencies of translation would per- 
 mit. For the adaptation of M. Rod's verse I am 
 indebted to Mr. Stanhope Sams. 
 
 It may not be out of place in this preface to 
 retrace briefly M. Rod's literary career. He is 
 forty years of age, and was born at Nyon, in the 
 canton of Vaud, Switzerland. He studied at the 
 Universities of Berne and Berlin, giving especial 
 attention to philology, He then went to Paris and
 
 lO Preface, 
 
 devoted himself to literary criticism. By his con- 
 tributions to the leading newspapers and reviews 
 he soon established a reputation as a writer of 
 considerable erudition, gifted with a peculiarly 
 graceful style. He was a warm admirer of 
 Emile Zola, and in 1880 published a pamphlet 
 entitled " A propos de I'assommoir," in which he 
 defended that high priest of reahsm with skill 
 and conviction, and was violently attacked for 
 his pains. 
 
 This pamphlet was followed by other critical 
 essays that were published in volume form, no- 
 table among them being " Wagner et I'esthe- 
 tique allemande." M. Rod is a enthusiastic sub- 
 scriber to the great German composer's musical 
 theories. Other well-known works of criticism 
 byM. Rod include" Le developpement du mythe 
 d'Eschyle dans la Htterature," " Giacomo Leo- 
 pardi," " Dante," " Goethe," and " Stendhal." 
 
 But it is as a novelist that he is best known to 
 the general public of both hemispheres. His 
 novels are mainly of a psychological character 
 and many of them are markedly pessimistic in 
 tone. M. Rod has been an assiduous student of 
 Schopenhauer. His first volume of fiction was 
 published in 188 1. It was entitled " Palmyra 
 Veulard." Then in succession came " La Chute 
 de Miss Topsy," " L'Autopsie du Docteur Z," 
 " La Femme d'Henri Vanneau," •' La Course a 
 la mort," " Tatiana Leiloff," " Le Sens dela vie," 
 " Les Trois Coeurs," " La Sacrifice," » La Vie
 
 Preface. 1 1 
 
 privee de Michel Tessier " (which has been 
 dramatised), " La Seconde Vie de Michel Tes- 
 sier," "Les Roches Blanches," " Dernier Refuge," 
 " Le menage du Pasteur Naudie," " La Haut," 
 and " Le Silence," which is herewith presented 
 under the title of " The Sacrifice of Silence." 
 
 In 1884 M. Rod with a few other ambitious 
 young litterateurs founded the Revue Contempo- 
 raitie. In 1887 he was appointed professor of 
 comparative literature at the University of Ge- 
 neva, but soon returned to Paris to resume his 
 career as critic and novelist with the result that 
 he has won to the front rank of contemporaneous 
 writers. 
 
 JOHN W. HARDING.
 
 THE 
 
 SACRIFICE OF SILENCE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 A CONVERSATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was after one of those dinners which pe- 
 riodically reunite men of various professions, old 
 school or college chums separated by the exigen- 
 cies of life, yet among whom the tie of boyhood 
 memories subsists and who meet again with pleas- 
 ure. Coffee and cigars were being enjoyed. 
 The conversation, after having touched upon 
 several subjects, had turned to the discussion of 
 a rather curious newspaper item. A man well 
 known in society.,circles,whose name, I think, was 
 M, de Prefontaine, had been taken home with a 
 knife stab in the abdomen. After lingering for 
 three days he had expired without having ut- 
 tered a single word that could throw any light 
 upon the tragedy, although he was fully cou- 
 
 [13]
 
 14 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 scious to the last and a clever examining magis- 
 trate had tried every possible means to induce 
 him to explain how he came by his fatal wound. 
 
 At first each member of the company judged 
 this determined obstinacy according to his own 
 temperament. In some it excited admiration; 
 others expressed the view that it was a little too 
 heroic. 
 
 "Well, had I been in his place I should have 
 told everything," said a celebrated novelist. 
 
 "What for?" asked somebody. "The con- 
 fession would not have saved him." 
 
 "No, but it would have relieved him," con- 
 cluded the novelist, accentuating his Southern 
 accent. 
 
 Thereupon conjectures as to the nature of the 
 secret thus preserved by the victim's tragic si- 
 lence were indulged in. Then everybody being 
 agreed that it was an affair of conjugal ven- 
 geance we fell to discussing the right to exercise 
 vengeance. We soon wearied of this common- 
 place theme, however, and then the conversation 
 became affined, was monopolised by the more 
 subtle among us, who began a discussion upon 
 the essence, as it were, of irregular liaisons. 
 
 A first point was established without giving rise 
 to serious contestation : that marriage is a defective 
 institution, altogether inadequate to regulate the 
 relations between the sexes. Its suppression was 
 proposed; but in seeking the means to accom- 
 plish this reform it was found that marriage being
 
 A Conversation. 15 
 
 the corner stone of the social edifice, it could not be 
 destroyed without overturning the whole organ- 
 isation of the world : the family, property, etc. ; 
 and even the boldest admitted that such a revo- 
 lution presented practical difficulties calculated 
 to put an end to the good will of the legislative 
 powers for a very long time. The conversa- 
 tion came near being dropped at this discovery 
 which brought home to us the inutility of our 
 observations. As sometimes happens, how- 
 ever, among persons who, although having noth- 
 ing to say, are absolutely bent upon talking, 
 it revived, and one of us perpetrated the fol- 
 lowing paradox : 
 
 "Marriage cannot be accepted and respected 
 by the dry hearted, the indifferent, the luke- 
 warm, who live without the need of love, and 
 who consequently know nought of devotion, for- 
 getfulness of self, exaltation, in short, all those 
 extreme sentiments by which the soul can be 
 ennobled. There is a normal state only for the 
 egotists and the soulless : it is they who, being the 
 great majority, have succeeded in making their 
 dull conception of life and their cold canalisa- 
 tion of love prevail, and in imposing it even upon 
 the best among us, who have been so weak as 
 to conform thereto. So that to-day one con- 
 siders one fulfills one's duty by renouncing love, 
 which is the ideal, in favor of marriage, which 
 is the negation of the ideal." 
 
 These remarks, emphasized by a tone of semi-
 
 1 6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 banter, met with some approval; but a grave 
 voice replied: 
 
 "No, the noblest are not those who avoid this 
 legal yoke of marriage in order to give a free 
 rein to their instincts. They are those who hav- 
 ing recognized its inadequacy nevertheless ac- 
 cept it, not through weakness nor through dry- 
 ness of soul, but through a spirit of justice and 
 sacrifice. You speak of devotion: is there more 
 devotion in following the impulses of one's heart 
 than in resisting them to the profit of the word 
 given and of a being to whom one has bound 
 one's self? No doubt the best are rarely exempt 
 from the temptations of illegitimate desires, 
 which are always excused, or which it is sought 
 to excuse, by a thousand specious arguments; 
 but they resist them, they overcome them, and 
 their soul, so far from losing thereby, gains at 
 once in strength and tenderness. And really, 
 if it existed but to teach self-denial to a few se- 
 lect individuals, marriage would have its grand- 
 eur and reason for being." 
 
 This stoical declaration was approved, like 
 the preceding one which it contradicted. For 
 such are intelligent men : through understanding 
 everything they get so that they cease to make 
 distinctions; indifference renders them versatile 
 in suchwise that they readily change their opinion 
 upon questions which they take up only with 
 their mind and which can be solved only by 
 character.
 
 A Conversation, 17 
 
 One of us, entering into the views of the first 
 speaker and following up his argument, added : 
 
 "In any case, there is in irregular liaisons an 
 inevitable defect which makes them particu- 
 larly odious: they are condemned to lying, de- 
 ceit, and hypocrisy. That alone, it seems to me, 
 would render them prohibitory to hearts of any 
 dehcacy, to persons of exalted mind." 
 
 "Do you think so ?" responded some one with 
 great vivacity. "Are there not then cases when, 
 thanks to the aberrations of the social organiza- 
 tion and to social prejudices, lying, deceit 
 and hypocrisy almost become virtues ? Are 
 there not cases when recourse to base actions 
 is so painful that to perpetrate them may be 
 the most heroic of sacrifices ?".... 
 
 Protests interrupted the speaker, for the aus- 
 tere words he had uttered inclined us to be vir- 
 tuous. But our companion continued with grow- 
 ing animation (perhaps, I thought, because he 
 was defending a personal cause) : 
 
 "No, no, dissimulation and lying are not al- 
 ways debasing; it does happen, on the contrary, 
 that they exalt and ennoble like everything that 
 impels us to a great expenditure of internal en- 
 ergy. To love and suffer in silence — do you not 
 understand what that may sometimes mean ? I 
 have not, of course, in mind those vulgar liaisons 
 which have no other object than a mediocre 
 sensuousness, like those that are currently formed 
 ■between insignificant and corrupt individuals;
 
 1 8 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 but a true love which fills the entire being, which 
 engrosses, absorbs, exalts it, which makes it 
 better, which occupies of itself the whole heart, 
 the whole intelligence, one of those amours in- 
 finitely rare, infinitely precious, which are life's 
 most beautiful flower, — and which never, never 
 can be avowed! Try to measure the strength 
 necessary to prevent it from betraying itself by 
 a word, by a gesture, by a look! Calculate the 
 heroism which sacrifices its free and proud ex- 
 pression to the laws, conventions and usages of 
 a world to which it is a thousand times superior. 
 When this love goes through one of those crises 
 in which the heart is breaking, in which cries 
 rise to the lips and choking sobs to the throat, 
 yet all of which must be suppressed — think what 
 in such a moment the mask of indifference costs, 
 think of the tortures it hides. Tell me if then the 
 hypocrisy of silence, the lie of the quiet, calm 
 voice, the dissimulation of living the life that 
 others live do not constitute a sacrifice, too, the 
 most painful that one can exact of a man and, 
 consequently, the most noble ?" 
 
 Developed as it was with somewhat feverish 
 conviction this thesis fotmd some supporters and 
 the discussion between the adversaries and par- 
 tisans of established institutions waxed animated. 
 But I ceased to take part in it, and even to listen 
 to it. The captious affirmation of the last in- 
 terlocutor, debatable most certainly,, paradoxical 
 and dangerous as it was, had awakened within
 
 A Convei^sation. 19 
 
 me a memory that time had almost effaced: 
 that of a secret surprised one day, or at least 
 perceived, through a series of details so tenuous 
 that hitherto it had seemed to me impossible to 
 assemble and formulate them. And now my 
 mania of a literary man, excited by the conversa- 
 tion I have just recounted, began to work upon 
 these details of which the almost unseizable 
 ensemble appeared suddenly to me as a sort of 
 illustration of the theory that was being dis- 
 cussed around me. Instinctively I sought to deter- 
 mine them, to group them, to impart to them the 
 form of a narrative. It was a very difficult task. 
 In effect, I knew almost nothing about the his- 
 tory on which my thoughts, were dwelling. I 
 could not admit that it had existed only in my 
 imagination; but in any case I had seen but a 
 few moments of it, those which by their in- 
 tensity had forced the principals of the adven- 
 ture to exert all their strength of will to remain 
 impassible. Definitions and transitions were 
 entirely lacking. What, then, was I to do in or- 
 der to grasp the facts and then set them forth 
 in an intelligible manner? 
 
 On reflection, I concluded that the easiest and 
 best thing to do was to present personages and 
 things as I had seen them, and without essaying 
 to fill by artificial means the gaps left by direct 
 observation, offer only my hypotheses as circum- 
 stances evoked them and exactly as they should 
 be formed in my mind. It is thus that I wrote
 
 20 The Sacj'ifice of Silence. 
 
 the following pages. If I manage to get my im- 
 pressions shared and to inspire the emotion which 
 in spite of their intermittent uncertainty, ob- 
 scurity and incoherence the events related oc- 
 casioned me at the time of their occurrence I 
 shall perchance be excused for departing from 
 the usual methods of the story teller. Has this 
 intuition been true or false in its deductions ? I 
 do not know ; but even from the distance at which 
 I review the facts they appear to me as signifi- 
 cant as they did at the time they impressed me.
 
 PART II. 
 
 A HISTORY — KERMOYSAN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 In the first place it behooves me to evoke two 
 of the rarest figures it has been my good fortune 
 to encounter. 
 
 One of the first drawing rooms that I fre- 
 quented when I entered society was that of Mme. 
 
 B . It was a most interesting centre where 
 
 in a milieu of quiet and rather old fashioned 
 elegance the intimate friends of the hostess gath- 
 ered one night each week, forming a compact 
 nucleus around which passed a large number 
 of people of all sorts, mostly celebrated At 
 
 the time I made her acquaintance Mme. B 
 
 was nearly seventy years of age. She was one 
 of those who make the most of life. She knew 
 how to grow old: her last trait of coquettishness 
 was to admit her age. She bore it as proudly 
 as she bore her white hair, and was imbued with 
 the sentiments of her years — kindness, indul- 
 gence and a delicate comprehension, with the re- 
 sult that the youngest of her intimates treated her 
 with that affectionate deference which superior
 
 22 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 old people alone inspire in those who surround 
 them. Mme. B took a fancy to me, doubt- 
 less owing to my extreme naivete, and without 
 appearing to do so, so that, at the time I had not 
 even a suspicion of the service she was rendering 
 me, she sought to teach me to note and guide my 
 sympathies. 
 
 For several weeks, which later she smiling 
 referred to as my period of probation, she re- 
 ceived me only in the afternoon, at tea time, and 
 thus I passed many hours listening to the tittle- 
 tattle of the amiable women who called upon her, 
 and learning to dissemble any astonishment. I 
 might feel and to overcome my too obvious in- 
 genuousness. When she judged that I had made 
 such progress that I should not cut a too ridicu- 
 lous figure in her drawing room she finally in- 
 vited me to her Tuesday soirees. It was with 
 no little emotion that I made my real debut in 
 society, for my timidity was extreme, and for 
 that matter it was justified. I felt awkward in- 
 deed in this little circle where reigned at one 
 and the same time the ease of intimacy and the 
 distinction of witty repartee. The very even- 
 ing that I entered it for the first time Mme. 
 
 B came to me in a window recess where I 
 
 had taken refuge and pointing out two persons 
 who were conversing in a corner of the room, 
 apart from the other groups, said : 
 
 "Those are the most perfect beings I know." 
 As can be imagined, this admiring verdict of
 
 A History — Kerfnoysan. 23 
 
 a judge who was so hard to please excited my 
 curiosity in the highest degree. First of all I 
 gazed from a distance at these persons whose 
 superiority, which I accepted without question, 
 even as a dogma, filled me with awe. Then, 
 managing to overcome my timidity I sought to 
 get a nearer view of them. I succeeded; but in 
 my eyes they continued to preserve the sort of 
 
 aureola with which Mme. B 's tribute had 
 
 nimbussed them, and it was doubtless because 
 they were together when I first saw them that 
 I came to unite them more closely in my thoughts. 
 
 Although many years have elapsed since he 
 disappeared, the man, Andre Kermoysan, has 
 by no means been forgotten. The novels of this 
 naval officer, who, before Loti, made exotism 
 fashionable, are still read, and his fine intense 
 drama Lautrec, as is well known, still holds its 
 place in the repertory of the Comedie-Francaise. 
 
 At the time when Mme. B first called my 
 
 attention to him he was at the height of his popu- 
 larity and success. His name was in everybody's 
 mouth and his books were in everybody's hands. 
 As to the author himself, the interest he excited 
 was the keener from the fact that he was rarely 
 seen in society. 
 
 He was about thirty- eight years old. His 
 close cut hair and slight moustache were pre- 
 maturely gray and contrasted with the per- 
 sistent youthfulness of his calm, handsome face, 
 which was of semi-transparent whiteness with
 
 24 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 regular features. His bright, soft, light brown 
 eyes imparted to his physiognomy an expres- 
 sion of almost feminine tenderness. In his 
 manners, his movements of slightly indolent 
 gracefulness, his few and harmonious gestures, 
 in his remarks also, and even in his deep voice 
 were extreme reserve, but so discreet that 
 one could not have told whether it was nat- 
 ural, or clever affectation. Of perfect politeness 
 although he made no advances, and of an amia- 
 bility in which was a good deal of forced benevo- 
 lence, he never gave himself away. One could 
 treat with him upon subjects of the most diverse 
 character, and yet after a long conversation to 
 which he would lend himself with the best grace 
 in the world, one left him without having gained 
 an5^hing of his confidence or friendship. The 
 sympathy which at first sight he almost invari- 
 ably inspired went out to him only to return, 
 not deceived, but rejected. One felt that one 
 was kept at a distance, in spite of the kindness 
 of his reception, by an invisible, indefinable ob- 
 stacle that separated one from him. 
 
 I was introduced to M. Kermoysan. He exam- 
 ined me for an instant with his bright eyes, 
 spoke to me, listened to me, and even appeared 
 to take an interest in my debuts, with as much 
 interest as he could take in anything. When 
 he perceived that I psrsistently sought his society 
 he invited me to call upon him. Although I 
 could see that this invitation, which was any-
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 25 
 
 thing- but a pressing one, cost him an effort, I 
 could not resist the pleasure of profiting by it. 
 He received me with his customary politeness, 
 which appeared to me to become more cordial, so 
 that I thought I might, without too much indis- 
 cretion, repeat my visit several times, at intervals 
 that became gradually shorter. 
 
 He lived in the Rue Oudinot in a little entresol 
 that was filled with treasures he had brought 
 back from his voyages — a collection of arms from 
 the East, painted marble idols from India, and 
 especially stuffs, sumptuous stuffs which re- 
 flected the light and presented to the eye a cha- 
 toyante harmony of colors. The windows opened 
 upon a tranquil landscape of gardens in which 
 old-fashioned flowers nodded in the breeze and 
 age-worn trees o'ershadowed them. An old 
 servant named Adolphe, ex-valet of an Ambas- 
 sador of the Second Empire, did all the house- 
 hold work, including the cooking. Between mas- 
 ter and man there was a perfect understanding. 
 Adolphe knew his master's wants and few in- 
 structions were necessary. 
 
 M. Kermoysan was always at home. Once 
 and once only I found him at work. I was about 
 to withdraw, but he requested me to remain. 
 He threw aside his pen and seemed delighted 
 at havi:ig a pretext to interrupt his labor. 
 
 "I am V ry lazy these times," he said. "Stay, 
 I b?g, and let us talk; it is easier." 
 
 It seemed to me that Adolphe, solemn-looking
 
 26 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 in spite of the white apron he wore all the morn- 
 ing, shook his gray head sadly. 
 
 That day M. Kermoysan was more cordial, 
 more expansive than usual. He talked to me 
 about a love story upon which he was working — 
 "when I can work," he added. He related the 
 plot and sketched the characters of it with some 
 animation. I ventured a few observations, to 
 which he responded. Then little by little his 
 attention relaxed, and his entrain disappeared. 
 It was thus that all our talks ended. He listened 
 to me, and answered me, but he was always 
 thinking of something else. Sometimes I imag- 
 ined I could read on his brow and in his eyes 
 that obstinate, ever-present, ever-uppermost, 
 thought, like a phrase written in unknown letters, 
 in a foreien tongue. I was wounded in the en- 
 thusiastic friendship I entertained for him al- 
 though I had never dared to manifest it, and I 
 told myself that this mysterious thought, which 
 I could not decipher, would be an obstacle 
 between us even were he, in consideration of my 
 sympathy, to forget the difference between our 
 ages and positions. 
 
 The person who was conversing with M. Ker- 
 moysan the day I saw him for the first time at 
 Mme. B 's was a woman still young, al- 
 though not in the first bloom of youthfulness, 
 whose name was Mme. Herdevin. She was tall, 
 of almost exaggerated slenderness, very elegant 
 and handsome. Her beauty however was of
 
 A History — Kei'inoysaii. 2"] 
 
 the kind that does not strike one at first sight; 
 that has to be discovered and is difficult to de- 
 scribe. Besides, time has effaced its traits from 
 my memory. They still linger in my mind, no 
 doubt, but vaguely, indistinctly, in a flou of lines 
 and colors like that of the faces of saints on the 
 frescoes of old convents. The sheen of her 
 golden hair, which she wore in the Grecian style, 
 alone appears with anything approaching clear- 
 ness ; the rest escapes me, like so many other 
 visages death has veiled. 
 
 I remember that when Mme. B pointed 
 
 Kermoysan and Mme. Herdevin out to me as 
 they stood in a corner of the salon, I observed 
 them at first from a distance; then I gradually 
 drew nearer to them, after the manner of a 
 timid and inquisitive child. Mme. Herdevin 
 was listening: her physiognomy expressed a 
 sustained, exclusive attention, which seemed to 
 isolate her, so to speak. Then, in turn, she 
 spoke. I could not hear her words, but I could 
 hear her voice, and incontinently felt the charm 
 of it. It was music. Such a voice expresses its 
 meaning far better than words. The impression 
 it made upon me was such that even now, after 
 all these years, I seem to hear it: it falls upon 
 my ear from a great distance, faintly, in dying 
 accents, and it is but the sweeter. I was charmed 
 by it to the point of rapture, and when in a few 
 moments she left Kermoysan and mingled with 
 the indifiEerent groups scattered about the salon
 
 28 TJic Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 I summoned up courage enough to beg Mme, 
 
 B to introduce me to her. Indulgent with 
 
 my enthusiasm she did so with pleasure. 
 
 I obtained without difficulty from Mme. Her- 
 devin the commonplace phrases to which every 
 good young man who makes his entree into so- 
 ciety has a right. But this did not satisfy me; I 
 longed to see her nearer, at her home. Now, I 
 was altogether an ordinary personage, awkward, 
 insignificant, lacking in conversational powers 
 and any agreeable talent, scarcely able to dance 
 properly, in fact that nothing, absolutely nothing, 
 could recommend to the attention of a stranger. 
 Mme. Herdevin could scarcely have noticed me 
 the day I was presented to her, did not know 
 me when I met her again, and for several weeks 
 regarded me as an importunate individual who 
 annoyed her with his attentions. All that time 
 she produced upon me an impression corres- 
 ponding exactly with that caused by Kermoysan, 
 whom I was beginning to visit. Her's was the 
 same reserve, and of the same nature. No mat- 
 ter where she might be, her soul was elsewhere, 
 and that in spite of the visible efforts she made 
 to interest herself in what was passing around 
 her. She lent herself to conversation with the 
 best grace, and yet one felt that her real desire 
 was to make it as brief as possible, and when 
 she ceased to talk she appeared more at ease, as 
 though silence were her real element. 
 
 This attitude, far from diminishing my sym-
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 29 
 
 pathy, increased it. Little by little, thanks to 
 my tenacity, I succeeded in getting nearer to her; 
 I obtained a few smiles, a few words above the 
 commonplace, a few kind looks ; it was as though 
 she were accustoming herself to seeing me in 
 her circle of familiars. I rejoiced at this progress, 
 slight as it was. I reached the height of my 
 desires the day when she invited me to her Thurs- 
 day five o'clock tea, adding as she did so: 
 
 "You will not find much amusement. I rarely 
 receive any but a few intimate friends, and my 
 house is not very gay." 
 
 To visit her in her home, breathe the same air, 
 I asked nothing more: in early youth one is im- 
 bued with new, pure yet ardent sentiments, that 
 it would be difficult to define. I did not love 
 Mme. Herdevin, but I was on the point of loving 
 her, or rather, I think, of adoring her, with the 
 ecstasy of a pilgrim. 
 
 Before calling upon her I judged it prudent 
 
 to ask Mme. B for a little information 
 
 about the Herdevins that would enable me to avoid 
 making clumsy mistakes. My old friend willingly 
 told me what it was necessary for me to know : 
 
 The husband, M. Leopold Herdevin, was a 
 stock broker, extremely wealthy, but brutal, 
 coarse, of bad habits, who seemed to belong to 
 a different species to his wife's. In reality, if 
 not ostensibly, they had long lived apart: he in 
 a world of actresses and horses, she amid a very
 
 30 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 few and faithful friends, who sought her society 
 and manifested deep afEection for her. 
 
 "You will not often meet M. Herdevin in 
 
 his wife's drawing-room, " said Mme. B . 
 
 "When by chance he does appear there, with 
 his heavy yellow face he produces the effect of a 
 smear of oil. 
 
 They had two twin girls, six years of age. One 
 of them, named Martha, was afflicted with 
 a spinal malady which had checked her de- 
 velopment. Preserved like a fragile object the 
 poor wee, puny, suffering thing lived sus- 
 pended to the breath of her mother whom 
 she adored with the little tendernesses of a 
 precocious child in the shadow of death. The 
 girl's affliction was without doubt a thorn in 
 Mme. Herdevin's flesh, her constant thought, 
 the wound which even more than the indif- 
 erence and coarseness of her husband pre- 
 vented her from profiting by her beauty, her 
 charm, and her remaining years of youthfulness. 
 
 Mme. B obligingly recounted to me all 
 
 these details, then, perceiving that I was deeply 
 interested, added with the kind smile of an in- 
 dulgent grandmother: 
 
 "You are I fancy in the way of falling in love 
 with Mme. Herdevin. I must warn you that she 
 has suffered too much from the realities of life 
 to be romantic. She has a solid heart and a 
 cool head, you may be sure. She is nearing her 
 thirtieth year and is unhappy in her home life,
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 31 
 
 and yet no word of gossip about her has ever 
 been uttered. But you will do right in frequent- 
 ing her society as much as you can. When 
 you have broken the ice, if you do succeed in 
 breaking it, you will know what the charm of 
 a perfect woman can be." 
 
 I had blushed to the ears, as though I had 
 been caught in the act of doing something wrong, 
 and to hide my embarrassment I brought up 
 the subject of M. Herdevin again. 
 
 "Even if you see very little of him, you will 
 
 soon be edified, never fear," said Mme. B . 
 
 "He is one of those persons one knows quickly, 
 and whom one experiences no desire to become 
 better acquainted with. His wife has put up 
 with a great deal, and, I think, has suffered much. 
 Now she is resigned : she does not even feel the 
 pain he still would like to cause her." 
 
 "Has she ever loved him?" I asked rather 
 stupidly. 
 
 Mme. B looked at me a little mockingly: 
 
 "I don't know," she said. "How do you sup- 
 pose I should know such a thing as that? But, 
 in women, even the best of them, there is be- 
 sides love, amour-propre. Its wounds also 
 hurt, and these have not been spared your friend, 
 I can assure you." 
 
 In a short while I was one of the regu- 
 lar frequenters of Mme. Herdevin's salon — a 
 large salon, of wholly external sumptuousness, 
 destined for others, a salon to which the mistress
 
 32 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 of the house was indifferent, which participated 
 in nothing of her grace. Notwithstanding the 
 enormous logs that blazed in the fire-place the 
 room was always rather chilly. Moreover one 
 rarely found more than five or six persons as- 
 sembled there, and they spoke in subdued tones, 
 as though they were in a church. Conversa- 
 tion was carried on slowly and lacked interest. 
 Many would have been bored to death, and truth 
 to tell, I certainly should have been bored my- 
 self had not the presence of Mme. Herdevin, how- 
 ever cold and absent minded she might be, com- 
 pensated for the most insipid remarks. 
 
 I had expected often to meet M. Kermoysan 
 there, since he sought her company in society, 
 I soon remarked however that he rarely came, 
 that his visit was always brief, and that his pres- 
 ence did not add either to the entrain or socia- 
 bility of the company. Once we were invited 
 together to dinner. His attitude was that of a 
 casual guest rather than of a friend. He spoke 
 but little, and was more reserved, more distracted, 
 more insaisissable than ever. Moreover the re- 
 past was a gloomy one. Notwithstanding the 
 excellence of the dishes and of the wines, the 
 conversation lagged painfully and was kept at 
 a very low level by the puns of the master of 
 the house. Sometimes his observations, which 
 he emphasised with a loud guffaw, were so trivial 
 as to cause his wife obvious discomfort, like 
 a sting the smart of which was betrayed by a
 
 A History — Kernioysan. 33 
 
 slight knitting of her brow. I understood then 
 why she did not receive more often than she was 
 obHged to. But why ask Kermoysan and me 
 to meet people whom we had no pleasure in 
 knowing, who could have no interest in us, and 
 whom in all probability we should never see 
 again ? 
 
 Weeks passed in this way, and I did not know 
 Mme. Herdevin better than on the night when 
 I first heard the sound of her voice and she vouch- 
 safed me a couple of insignificant phrases. The 
 ice was long in breaking. Yet little by little, 
 by dint of talks which became more familiar, 
 and especially after having on several occasions 
 found myself en tete-a-tcte with her, I was able, 
 or thought I was able, with some chance of divin- 
 ing rightly, to catch a trait of her character : 
 
 She was kind, with the natural kindness of a 
 sister of charity, but with that passive kindness 
 which manifests itself by sentiments more than 
 by acts. I became satisfied also that she was 
 intelligent, or rather, comprehensive. Not, how- 
 ever, after the manner of women of culture who 
 reason about everything as specialists; no, but 
 she possessed that intelligence of the heart which 
 understands everything, which is exercised in 
 preference upon the small things of life, which 
 shines in all that one says about others and in 
 the discreet semi-confidences one makes about 
 one's self. She was sad also and especially, 
 with a touching sadness which she endeavored
 
 4 TJie Sacrifice of Silc?ice. 
 
 with infinite art to conceal, yet which revealed 
 itself, enveloping her in a sort of mystery that 
 added to her charm. 
 
 This mystery attracted me to her more and 
 more, and at last I came to enclose her within 
 the wide limits of a double and absolutely con- 
 tradictory hypothesis: "Either she has never 
 loved and suffers from the need of loving, or 
 else she loves too much." 
 
 As can be seen my youthful perspicacity was 
 giving itself space.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 I must now relate a series of facts unconnected 
 by any apparent link, some of which did not 
 strike me at the time of their occurrence and 
 which only conveyed a meaning to me later. 
 
 Mme. B sometimes favored me by de- 
 taining me after her other visitors had taken 
 their departure. On these occasions I greatly 
 enjoyed the friendly and familiar chat which 
 succeeded the somewhat high-toned conversation 
 that had been indulged in. We talked more 
 
 especially about others. Mme. B always 
 
 experienced great pleasure in exercising, though 
 without the slightest malice, her faculties of analy- 
 sis upon persons of her acquaintance. The 
 astonishment which her deductions sometimes 
 caused me amused her hugely. One afternoon 
 when I found myself alone with her the conver- 
 sation turned upon Kermoysan, who had made 
 a long call upon her at the same time as Mme. 
 Herdevin. 
 
 "Have you read any of his verses?" asked Mme. 
 B suddenly. 
 
 "Verses!" I exclaimed. "He has never pub- 
 lished any that I know of." 
 
 "That is true; but he has written some. They 
 
 [35]
 
 J 
 
 6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 are very scarce, and are only known to his closest 
 friends. Would you like to see them?" 
 
 Without waiting for my reply she went to a 
 little Louis Quinze writing desk, took a small vol- 
 ume bound in vellum from a drawer and handed 
 it to me. It was a collection of about fifty pages 
 on fine paper, without title or the name of the 
 author. Only six copies had been printed. 
 
 "Read," she said. 
 
 I read aloud one after the other the poems 
 which made up the collection, and which gener- 
 ally were short. 
 
 The poets of the young school would have 
 accounted the verses bad. They were of a truth 
 a trifle "out of date," and rendered heavy by 
 monotonous caesura, a few awkward expletives, 
 and very ordinary rhyme, as is often the case 
 with the verses of even clever writers who are not 
 expert in the use of the language of poetry. Not- 
 withstanding these shortcomings, however, they 
 interested me deeply; for they expressed, occa- 
 sionally with really touching intensity, the half- 
 veiled nuances of a sentiment at once tender and 
 sad, culpable and tormented. In these few pages 
 were cries of pain, cries of anguish, cries of joy, 
 cries of remorse. One could divine therein a 
 soul troubled to its profoimdest depths, tossed 
 hither and thither by the blasts of an irresistible 
 hurricane, like the poor souls drawn into the 
 eternal maelstrom, to which in fact the poet him- 
 self alluded in one of his most ardent pieces, and
 
 A Hist or) — Kcrfiwysan. 2>7 
 
 gradually one experienced that sort of vertigo 
 which the spectacle of grandes passions some- 
 times occasions. A few of the verses, which I 
 only read once, impressed themselves upon my 
 memory. On returning home I dotted them 
 down in a diary in ^\hi^h I was accustomed daily 
 to record my observations, and from which I now 
 cull them : 
 
 Time builds the infinite from the vanished years, 
 
 As waves are garnered on the ocean's floor. 
 Men yet unborn shall feel love's joys and fears, 
 But our soul's flower, though watered with our tears, 
 Shall bear love's radiant fruit for us no more. 
 
 * * * * » ■ 
 
 Still though my heart shall wither in the blast — 
 You, who illumed the darkness where I strayed 
 And left bright paths of gold athwart the shade — 
 
 I bless you — you who loved me in that past. 
 
 » * * « * 
 
 women ! 'tis through Kindness that you fall, 
 Cold Virtue passes, blind to our distress, 
 Chaste, without pity, without tenderness. 
 
 * =k * « « 
 
 The fatal wind that buffets, stifles me, 
 
 Has borne thee deathward, thou so pure, so sweet ! 
 
 + * * * * 
 
 What fearest thou ? Let the world unmask our love 
 And spurn us ! We can flee ! 
 
 * * * * * 
 
 E'en though earth's span should part me from thee, love, 
 
 1 should my haven reach and die within thine arms.
 
 8 'T'he Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 These verses, the only ones I preserved, were 
 perhaps not the best nor the most chracteristic of 
 the little collection, a few pages of which caused 
 
 my voice to tremble. Mme. B listened 
 
 with half-closed eyes, as though this elevated 
 and romantic poetry, in which here and there the 
 influence of Lamartine was perceptible, caused 
 her the greatest pleasure, notwithstanding that 
 she had read it many a time and oft. 
 
 "Well?" she queried, when I closed the book 
 and handed it back to her, "what do you think 
 of these verses?" 
 
 I reflected a moment. 
 
 "They moved me greatly," I answered. 
 
 "Are they not fine — even though they do not 
 resemble those of your literary friends ?" 
 
 "Fine, I do not know about that; but they are 
 true " 
 
 Mme. B glanced at me interrogatively 
 
 and I explained : 
 
 "Yes, true — too true, even. Do you know 
 madame, I cannot undertand how M. Kermoysan 
 could have published them ? It is not in his na- 
 ture to do such a thing. He is a closed book, he 
 never reveals anything of himself, and these verses 
 are a veritable confession, most sincere and spon- 
 taneous in their accent." 
 
 Mme. B shook her head. 
 
 "Perhaps," said she, "you are drawing upon 
 your imagination. When M. Kermoysan pre- 
 sented the volume to me he told me that he had
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 39 
 
 written the verses for a novel, and that not being 
 able to finish this novel he had been unwilling 
 to lose them and therefore had them printed. 
 Does this appear to you unlikely ?' ' 
 
 "A little so. I am rather inclined to think . . . . 
 what shall I say ? . . . . that he wrote them be- 
 cause he was impelled to, that they sprang from 
 his very self at those times when one feels the 
 need of crying aloud one's secrets because they 
 choke one and will not be suppressed." 
 
 "But in that case he need only have written 
 them. Why should he have published them ?" 
 
 "He is all the same a man of letters ..." 
 Or else — who knows ? — he may have published 
 them in order to offer them to the person who 
 inspired them." 
 
 Mme. B smiled. 
 
 "How subtle you are!" she said with a tinge of 
 irony. 
 
 After a moment of silence .she added : 
 
 "After all it is not impossible. Kermoysan 
 is very mysterious .... maybe he has a very 
 complicated liaison." 
 
 My curiosity was aroused, and the opportunity 
 to learn something more about this man who in- 
 terested me so much being a favorable one I asked-: 
 
 "Have people gossiped about him? Is it known 
 whether he has a past?" 
 
 "A past !" exclaimed Mme. B . "Several 
 
 pasts! Very many pasts ! In France, in Paris, 
 without counting others which he left in those
 
 40 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 queer countries he pretends to love. M. Ker- 
 moysan has gone the pace. There is a little of 
 everything in his life: not only women, but 
 cards, even wine, opium, and I know not what. 
 A real sailor, in a w^ord. As soon as he was on 
 terra firma he lost control over himself." 
 
 "I was not aware of all this." 
 
 "Well, you see, there are a good many things 
 you are not aware of. Besides, if he used to be 
 talked about a good deal, it is not the case now. 
 He settled down five or six years ago, and now, 
 they say, he is as good as a plaster saint." 
 
 "That is very strange!" 
 
 "Do you think so ? Well^no, there is nothing 
 strange in it. Age is a factor to be considered. 
 Whatever we may do to resist it, w^e grow older 
 all the same, and there comes a time when we 
 must call a halt, become sedate, and make ar- 
 rangements to pass the remainder of our days 
 in peace and comfort, 'make an end of it,' as you 
 men say." 
 
 "Undoubtedly. But what arrangements has 
 he made?" 
 
 This simple question embarrassed Mme. B . 
 
 "Well," she said, "as. I observed, he has settled 
 down. What more can I say? Is not that mak- 
 ing a sufficiently final end of it?" 
 
 I did not answer, and Mme. B continued : 
 
 "In fact he has settled down too much for a 
 man of his age. And he was misguided enough 
 at one time to get his virtue talked about too
 
 A History — -Kermoysan. 41 
 
 much. Three years ago when his Laiitrec was 
 produced, the actress who played the principal 
 role fell in love with him. It was one of those 
 transient passions to which women of the stage 
 are subject. I cannot remember the details, but 
 there was a perfect comedy about this drama — 
 a comedy in which he took the part of a Joseph. 
 It caused a good deal of amusement in society 
 circles at the time. To-day it is forgotten." 
 
 " That," said I, "is a very significant incident 
 indeed. How can it be believed that it was 
 through virtue that a man such as he, an ex- 
 viveur, played the always rather ridiculous role 
 of him who will not allow himself to be loved ? 
 He has not been converted, that I know of ?" 
 
 " No, he believes in nothing: he is a perfect 
 infidel. " 
 
 " Consequently if it was not piety that ren- 
 dered him so good it must have been something 
 else." 
 
 " Perhaps he was just simply tired," suggested 
 Mme. B . 
 
 She was joking. At that very moment Mme. 
 Herdevin's face appeared clearly in my mind: 
 it was an intviition that could be explained by 
 nothing save the fact that I was accustomed to 
 associate her in my thoughts with Kermoysan. 
 
 " It may be,too," I said, " that a great love " 
 
 Mme. B appeared to weigh this suppo- 
 sition, then she rejected it.
 
 4^ The Sacrijjce of Silence. 
 
 " In the first place," she declared, "you are 
 incapable of a great love, you men of to-day." 
 
 " Exceptionally " I insinuated. 
 
 But she concluded: 
 
 " Besides it would be known. Such a thing 
 could not remain a secret. No, no, you have 
 not guessed aright. No, monsieur the psycholo- 
 gist, you will have to seek for something else." 
 
 " I will seek for it," I replied. 
 
 But I was sure that I had found it.
 
 CHAPTER in. 
 
 A few days after the foregoing conversation 
 I met Kermoysan at Mme. Herdevin's. They 
 were alone, she seated in the corner of a small 
 lounge near the fire, he ensconced in an arm- 
 chair at some distance from the lounge. They 
 received me with friendliness, still I had the im- 
 pression that my visit was inopportune, and pro- 
 posed to make it as short as possible. I had 
 hardly seated myself, however, when a servant 
 entered with a scared air and said something in 
 a low voice to Mme. Herdevin. She rose at once, 
 and begging us to excuse her for a moment left 
 the drawing room by a door which opened into 
 her husband's study. I continued to converse 
 with Kermoysan. He was absent-minded, and 
 two or three times, in spite of himself, his eyes 
 wandered towards the door. The conversation 
 dropped after a few remarks. We found noth- 
 ing to talk about, and sat facing each other with 
 some embarrassment, both a prey to the same 
 curiosity which we could not and would not 
 avow. Soon that curiosity increased to the point 
 of imeasiness. The voice of M. Herdevin, which 
 we had not at first heard, rose louder and louder 
 in the adjoining room. I could not prevent my- 
 self from muttering: 
 
 [43]
 
 44 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 " What is the matter with him?" 
 
 Kermoysan shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " A family quarrel," he said. 
 
 And he added with a great effort to appear 
 ironical and indifferent : 
 
 " The man is so vulgar! We really ought to 
 be grateful to him for not scolding his wife in 
 our presence." 
 
 At this moment the brutal voice, raised to a 
 high pitch, reached us distinctly through the 
 partition and hangings. We heard two or three 
 oaths which ended in a violent: "Tonnerre de 
 Dieu!" We rose together with the same move- 
 ment of indignation. 
 
 " The wretch!" I cried. 
 
 Kermoysan, as though impelled by a spring, 
 made two or three steps in the direction of the 
 door. He stopped, returned to his armchair, 
 sank into it and muttered as he bit his lips: 
 
 " He is capable of beating her!' ' 
 
 In the next room the voice had become covered 
 and we could hear only the irritated murmuring. 
 I had remained standing. 
 
 "This is odious!" I exclaimed. 
 
 My companion was very pale, but he had re- 
 covered his calmness. 
 
 " He is the husband," he said, gritting his teeth. 
 " It is none of our business," and he kept his eyes 
 fixed upon the tip of his shoe which he was mov- 
 ing restlessly on the carpet. 
 
 We remained quiet, hearing nothing more.
 
 A Hi.story — Kcrmoysan. 45 
 
 suddenly the violent slamming of a door ap- 
 prised us that the storm was over. I heaved, I ad- 
 mit, a sigh of relief. As to Kermoysan he passed 
 his hand over his eyes with the gesture of a man 
 who dispels a nightmare. 
 
 Mme. Herdevin, however, soon returned, but 
 hesitatingly, and with a pained air. She ex- 
 cused herself for having kept us waiting so long. 
 
 " My husband had something urgent to com- 
 mimicate to me," she said gently. 
 
 Her limpid eyes seemed to ask us whether we 
 had heard what had passed — and implored us 
 not to take any notice of it. 
 
 I was extremely embarrassed, fearing that it 
 would be indiscreet of me to prolong my visit, 
 and that it might worry her if I left too soon. I 
 therefore gave her time to say a few words which 
 she no doubt imagined would make believe that 
 her mind was free from care; then profiting by 
 an opportune moment of silence I rose to take 
 leave. Feeling instinctively that they would 
 want to talk to each other I thought that Ker- 
 moysan would remain. But no, he rose with 
 me, As Mme. Herdevin extended her hand, 
 however, it seemed to me that he held it one or 
 two seconds longer and pressed it a little stronger 
 than mere politeness required. 
 
 We left the house together. In the street — 
 the Herdevins lived at the lower end of the Ave- 
 nue du Trocadero — as we were going towards
 
 46 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 the Alma bridi^e, I could not resist the tempta- 
 tion to exclaim : 
 
 " What injustice that such a lout " 
 
 I did not finish the sentence. Kermoysan un- 
 derstood it. Instead of taking it up at once, he 
 walked on in silence for a few steps, gazing 
 straight before him. Then he said, dropping his 
 voice to a tone that was almost confidential : 
 " I believe she adores her children!" 
 Then as we had arrived at the Place de I'Alma, 
 he asked : 
 
 " Do you take the Avenue Montaigne ?" 
 " Yes, I am going to the Madeleine." 
 "And I over the bridge. I have business on 
 the other side of the water." 
 
 We shook hands and he strode rapidly away. 
 A few days later I saw Mme. Herdevin at a 
 ball to which, contrary to custom, her husband 
 had accompanied her. She appeared to me in 
 a new aspect. She was animated, talkative, mon- 
 daine, almost coquettish, but there was something 
 forced about it, something unnatural, that seemed 
 to protest to her. Certain persons who go into 
 society with the secret idea of looking for ro- 
 mances noted that she talked and danced a good 
 deal with a well-known clubman, whose success 
 with her astonished me. The Baron de Mal- 
 main was a conceited beau who affected a military 
 air, who was of a maturity that began to wrinkle 
 his forehead and thin the hair about his temples, 
 and who did not even possess that negative
 
 A History — Kemnoysan. 47 
 
 quality of being inoffensive that is not infre- 
 quently found in men of His stamp. In effect, 
 although he lacked wit, he possessed a store of 
 unkind anecdotes and stinging judgments about 
 other people to which he had recourse whenever 
 the occasion for showing off presented itself. 
 So that he was listened to and created laughter, 
 — that kind of laughter in which there is always 
 a little hatred, a little disdain, a little pride, which 
 is more spiteful than frivolous, which one ought 
 not to indulge in, and which is in demand. 
 
 I confess that I did not like to see Mme. Her- 
 devin waltzing with this individual, listening 
 smilingly to his remarks, and replying to him 
 in her pure, clear voice, that voice in which 
 seemed to sound the crystal of her soul. I was 
 not jealous, in the brutal and possessive sense of 
 the word, but I suffered from a sentiment that 
 was very much akin to jealousy. It seemed to 
 me that her contact with Mai main was contam- 
 inating her, that she would no longer be the same 
 after tolerating his arm round her waist and lis- 
 tening to his slander. I was relieved when he 
 quitted her and hied elsewhere with his lady- 
 killing gallantry; but he always returned and my 
 uneasiness recommenced. 
 
 Once I saw Mme. Herdevin standing by Ker- 
 mo)'san: their attitude, looks and expression re- 
 produced almost exactly the group which had im- 
 pressed me at Mme. B 's when I saw them 
 
 together for the first time. During the few minutes
 
 48 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 their conversation lasted I saw her again just as 
 I liked her and I was happy, so naive, so pure 
 was my sentiment for her, born wholly as it was 
 of respect and disinterested admiration. But 
 this did not last long: the inevitable Malmain 
 came to fetch her for a cjuadrille. She went at 
 once, saluting with a smile as she did so Ker- 
 moysan, who bowed more ceremoniously than 
 was necessary and resumed his society expression. 
 
 Kermoysan followed her with his eyes, then 
 seeing me he took my arm, saying: 
 
 " Suppose we stroll about a bit? There is not 
 enough air here." 
 
 He led me into a small salon where some card 
 parties were playing, lost a few louis nervously, 
 and returned to the ball-room. I kept beside 
 him. His gaze wandered imeasily over the couples 
 coming and going until it fell upon Mme. Her- 
 devin. She was seated, and listening to Malmain 
 who, standing, was half bending over her. 
 
 " Decidedly, it is too warm here," said Ker- 
 moysan. "I'm off. Au revoir!" 
 
 Hardly had he gone when M. Herdevin came 
 up to me. His coarse, fat face, red with the 
 heat, expressed profound ennui. Knowing hardly 
 anybody in a set that he did not frequent, he 
 had wandered like a lost soul all the evening, 
 between the ball-room and the card room, where 
 play was too moderate for his taste. 
 
 "Not very amusing, your set," he said with 
 ^ yawn. "Nainjaune at two sous a time, at family
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 49 
 
 tables. It woiild give anybody the hump. And 
 the heat's simply stifling. I've had enough of 
 it. I'm off to my club, I like that better. Good 
 night." 
 
 His wife who without appearing to do so had 
 watched his every movement saw him go, and left 
 immediately afterward. 
 
 And I had the very distinct impression that 
 between these three something had passed — 
 an abortive drama, a scene of jealousy, ruse, or 
 lying, something at all events, the details of 
 which I should not have cared to go into, even 
 had I been able.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 "In the drawing room of a friend of Mme. 
 
 B 's, at the close of an afternoon, three or 
 
 four women, among them Mme. Herdevin. Tea 
 is over. Conversation languishes and is about 
 to drop when Mai main makes his appearance. 
 He is smartly dressed, sparkling, triumphant; 
 even from his air it is easy to see that he brings 
 a bit of new gossip, some spiteful chit-chat cal- 
 culated to cause amusement for five minutes. 
 He has hardly taken a seat ere he says: 
 
 *' ' Have you read the article in the Spectateiir 
 about Kermoysan ?' 
 
 " The ladies look at each other and answer 
 that they have not. 
 
 " ' An article that hits the nail on the head, 
 you can take my word for it, and that you may 
 be sure will be talked about.' 
 
 " Thereupon he takes a copy of the Spectateiir 
 from his pocket, a much creased copy that must 
 have been used several times, and in his sharp 
 voice which his wicked joy renders sharper than 
 usual, he reads the most biting passages. Gall, 
 venom, calumny and abuse — one of those mix- 
 tures, humiliating to the human species, which 
 base envy alone could have prompted; at the 
 
 [50]
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 51 
 
 end of it the little known name of Maxime Lu- 
 cand. 
 
 " ' Who is Maxime Lucand ?' somebody asks. 
 
 " ' A young writer,' explains Malmain, ' who 
 has great talent as a pamphleteer. You see, 
 ladies, how your idol is handled.' 
 
 " He has been listened to with murmurs, with 
 frou frotis^ with little smothered laughs. A voice 
 in a tone of protest exclaims: 
 
 "'Oh: our idol!' 
 
 " And Malmain says exultingly: 
 
 " ' What ! Going to give him up already ? 
 He ! he ! It's just as well that the great favorites 
 of the ladies should get a little lesson now and 
 then. The birch is good for illustrious backs. 
 And our dear friend positively needed it.' 
 
 " I wait for a voice to be raised in defence of 
 the absent one; but the ladies listen and smile, 
 not one thinks of intervening. Involuntarily my 
 eyes seek Mme. Herdevin. She is gazing straight 
 before her as though she did not hear, with 
 tightly pressed lips and an icy air; she drums 
 upon her knees with her fingers while Malmain 
 continues with an exasperating affectation of 
 bonhomie : 
 
 " ' There is exaggeration in the article, no 
 doubt, a little exaggeration; but on the whole, 
 he! he! yes, on the whole, it may be well 
 founded, )7'ou see. To say that Kermoysan has 
 no talent is absurd, isn't it ? He has talent and 
 everybody recognizes the fact; still, he himself
 
 52 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 is more convinced of it than anybody else, and 
 above all he imagines he has more than he pos- 
 sesses. Don't you think he always has the air 
 of posing for his statue ? He looks as if he could 
 already see himself cast in bronze with a wreath 
 upon his brow.' 
 
 " They laugh: and one of them showing her 
 pretty teeth, replies: 
 
 " ' That is true, there is something of such an 
 air about him.' 
 
 " Thus encouraged Malmain resumes in more 
 animated tone: 
 
 " ' Only the other day, at the first performance 
 of L 'Eirang}re, I met him in the foyer of the 
 Comedie. He was strutting about with the air, 
 — with the air of a king in his palace. One 
 would have thought that he had written the 
 piece. Somebody stopped him, to ask for an ad- 
 dress, I think. He went to write it on one of 
 his cards, but couldn't find his pencil. His in- 
 terlocutor didn't have one either. I noticed 
 their embarrassment and offered him mine. 
 
 " He used it, and returned it with a ' thank 
 you' — oh! one of those Louis XIV. or Olym- 
 pian Jupi'.er thank yous. Then a queer idea 
 came into my head. I said to him: ' This is 
 now an historical pencil!' And he didn't see 
 that I was mocking him !' 
 
 " I can stand it no longer, and venture timidly: 
 
 " ' Are you quite sure ?' 
 
 ^' ' Parbleu !' replies Malmain, who hardly
 
 A Histoi'y — Kermoysan, 53 
 
 notices my interruption ; and he falls to picking 
 Kermoysan to pieces again more bitterly, with 
 more incisive and calumnious spitefulness : 
 
 " ' What will he do about this article ? Fight ? 
 I doubt it. I don't think he's a hero. People 
 say things about him ' 
 
 " This is too much. Trembling with anger I 
 ask: 
 
 " ' What things ?' 
 
 " My question is put in a tone of such firm- 
 ness that Malmain cannot avoid answering it. 
 Astonished at this unexpected intervention he 
 looks at me, becomes embarrassed, and stam- 
 mers: 
 
 " ' Things— well, things ' 
 
 " ' Say what they are !' 
 
 " ' Oh, one can't tell everything, you know.' 
 
 " ' That is a pity, I am sure, for it would be 
 seen that there is nothing about Kermoysan that 
 needs to be kept secret.' 
 
 " Then I speak out warmly, wax eloquent. 
 The ladies listen, somewhat astonished at this 
 explosion, a trifle ashamed, perhaps, at having 
 listened to Malmain, and quite ready to rally to 
 Kermoysan again. When I finish my brave 
 tirade Malmain looks at me haughtily, and says 
 with a superior smile : 
 
 " ' I was not aware that Kermoysan had any 
 friends. This is greatly to his credit !' 
 
 " But I have attained my object : he changes 
 the subject. A moment later Mme. Herdevin
 
 54 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 rises to take her departure. She holds out her 
 hand to me, a thing she has never done before, 
 and, I do not know whether I am mistaken, but 
 it seems to me that the pressure of her fingers 
 and the look in her eyes thank me. 
 
 " I no longer listen to the conversation, and I 
 leave in turn animated by a juvenile hate against 
 Malmain and very proud of the little role I have 
 played."
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 It was in my famous note book that I found 
 the details of the foregoing little scene, insignifi- 
 cant enough in itself. However, in spite of the 
 time that has since elapsed they probably would 
 have remained in my memory, because they 
 were connected with the graver incident which 
 followed, and in which I was directly concerned. 
 
 Having dined at a restaurant, I had returned 
 for the purpose of donning evening dress, to the 
 very modest two-roomed apartment I occupied 
 on the sixth floor of a big house in the Rue 
 Lafayette. I was engaged in curling my mous- 
 tache — an operation about which I was the 
 more particular because it would not have been 
 indispensable — when I heard a knock at the 
 door. I opened it without stopping to put on 
 my coat, and drew back in astonishment at sight 
 of Kermoysan who never before had called upon 
 me. He was accompanied by an elderly man of 
 haughty appearance, tightly buttoned up in a 
 frock coat and wearing a goatee. 
 
 " My friend. Captain Lozier," he said, intro- 
 ducing him. 
 
 Greatly agitated by this imexpected visit the 
 motive of which I vaguely guessed, I bade them 
 be seated and hurriedly put on my dress coat. 
 
 [55]
 
 D 
 
 6 The Sacrijice of Silenc6. 
 
 " I must ask your pardon for disturbing you 
 at this hour," said Kermoysan, " but I have an 
 urgent service ^o ask of you." 
 
 " I signified by a gesture that I was at his 
 disposal." 
 
 He continued: 
 
 " What has brought me here is that I am 
 going to fight Lucand." 
 
 I deemed I ought to object that there was no 
 real necessity for such a duel ; that a man in his 
 position was not at the mercy of the first comer 
 who might want to insult him, and besides, that 
 he was so superior to his aggressor that he would 
 be honoring the man too much in crossing 
 swords with him. 
 
 " I must fight," he interrupted in a tone that 
 admitted of no further argument. 
 
 Then, more gently, as though he felt that he 
 nevertheless owed me some explanation : 
 
 " I am, I need hardly say, quite indifferent to 
 this article ; but were I to put up with it others 
 would follow which might be more disagreeable 
 to me. They can roast my books as much as 
 they like, I don't care anything about that ; but 
 I won't permit them to talk about myself." 
 
 The captain, sitting rigidly in his arm-chair 
 nodded approval ; I bowed. 
 
 " Here is where the difficiilty about the affair 
 commences," continued Kermoysan with some 
 hesitation. " I have reasons, particular rea- 
 sons" — and he emphasized the word partic-
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. 57 
 
 ular — " for desiring that nothing shall be known 
 about this duel until it has taken place — reasons 
 so strong that if I thought it would be impos- 
 sible to prevent the report of it getting about 
 before hand, I would rather give it up." 
 
 " But," said I, " Lucand, on the other hand, 
 will naturally want to get all the notoriety out of 
 it he possibly can." 
 
 " That is precisely the danger," went on Ker- 
 moysan uneasily. " After it is all over he can 
 beat upon his big drum as much as ever he likes. 
 What I w^ant to do is to prevent at all costs any 
 information about the preliminaries leaking out 
 — newspaper paragraphs announcing that the 
 seconds are arranging the encounter, etc." 
 
 " You w'ill have no difficulty," I ventured, " in 
 getting the press " 
 
 He interrupted me with a shrug of his shoul- 
 ders: 
 
 " I cannot go the round of the papers to ask 
 them to keep quiet. As to my adversary's sec- 
 onds, they would make promises, but would not 
 keep them. I know what the word of a Lucand 
 and people of his kind is worth. There is, then, 
 only one way, and that is to go quickly about 
 the business." 
 
 " Yes, yes, very quickly," repeated the cap- 
 tain. 
 
 " The plan that appears most practical to me 
 is this," continued Kermoysan. " As you will 
 see, it can only be carried out by a great deal of
 
 58 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 good win on the part of the seconds. Consider- 
 ing the pedantry natural to fencers this is a first 
 point of some difficulty. There is a premiere at 
 the Varietes to-night. Lucand certainly will be 
 there. My seconds will hunt him up at the 
 theatre, apprise him that I am compelled by 
 orders from the Ministry of Marine to leave 
 Paris on duty to-morrow and that consequently 
 our quarrel must be settled immediately. At 
 any rate, by no matter what pretext, they must 
 get him to put them in communication this very 
 evening with two of his friends among the audi- 
 ence. All this is possible. If the plan succeeds, 
 the next thing will be to avoid debate with Lu- 
 cand's seconds. Their conditions, whatever 
 they may be, must be accepted, so that the en- 
 counter can take place at daybreak to-morrow. 
 They cannot contest my position as the offended 
 party, but if they demand concessions, give way 
 to them. Let them have swords or pistols, 
 whichever they want. The principal thing is 
 that the affair shall be settled speedily and with- 
 out noise." 
 
 Kermoysan had spoken rapidly, with anxious 
 feverishness, as though to convey the impression 
 of quickly passing incidents. I did not reply at 
 once. However inexperienced in such matters 
 I might be, I hesitated to accept a role so pas- 
 sive, and to so completely remove all freedom of 
 action in an affair which after all might take a 
 serious turn. He perceived my hesitation.
 
 A History — Ker7iioysan. 59 
 
 " Except the captain," he said, with a tinge 
 of pleading in his voice, " I have no friends in- 
 timate enough to accept such a role without ask- 
 ing me for explanations, and I cannot furnish 
 any. Moreover, I should be embarrassed to 
 find among my acquaintances anybody to whom 
 I could confide this necessity, this absolute ne- 
 cessity, for acting without delay. I thought of 
 you, because I know that you like me, and be- 
 cause I believe you to be discreet and generous. 
 It is a very great service I am asking of you, 
 much greater than you think." 
 
 I might have been flattered by such confi- 
 dence ; but I was especially moved by Kermoy- 
 san's tone, by the agitation which he tried to 
 control, by a sort of pained anguish which I did 
 not for an instant have the idea of attributing 
 ' to the material fact of the duel. I accepted. 
 
 He thanked me with effusion. 
 
 *' Do not be uneasy as to the outcome of the 
 encounter," he said. " I can still fence fairly 
 well and can hit the bull's eye at thirty paces. 
 You will see that all will go well." 
 
 Thereupon he rose. The captain, still mute, 
 followed suit. We walked down my six flights 
 and proceeded together towards the Theatre des 
 Varietes. Kermoysan shook hands with us, re- 
 peating in pressing tones as he did so, his re- 
 commendation: 
 
 '* Above all, be quick about it."
 
 6o The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 Then he went off to wait for us at the Cafe 
 Cardinal. 
 
 I was not without inquietnde as to the manner 
 in which the silent captain would conduct the 
 negotiations. Contrary to my expectation, how- 
 ever, he went about them very well indeed, with 
 an apparent bruscjueness that masked consider- 
 able tact and skill, so that I had no occasion to 
 say a single word. Lucand wanted to protest 
 against such haste, which was not at all to his 
 liking. 
 
 " Exigencies of the service!" said the captain. 
 
 He had no alternative but to yield. He went 
 the round of the corridors during an entr'acte, 
 and returned with two of his confreres whom he 
 introduced to us, and with whom we imme- 
 diately began the negotiations. They endea- 
 vored to raise a few difificulties. Faithful to his 
 instructions the captain entered into their views 
 without appearing to give way too readily, and 
 in a quarter of an hour we had drawn up the 
 proces verbal governing the conditions of the 
 combat. 
 
 We then rejoined Kermoysan who was await- 
 ing us with a vioithe a V eaji in front of him. 
 
 " Capital!" he said, perusing the sheet we 
 handed to him. 
 
 At this moment his face expressed only relief 
 and satisfaction. 
 
 " I could not have hoped that it would have 
 been arranged so well," he went on. " You have
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 6 1 
 
 acted very cleverly. Now, if you like, we will 
 go to bed early, for we must not oversleep our- 
 selves." 
 
 As can be imagined, I was greatly troubled. 
 I gave up all idea of going to the social function 
 for which I had dressed, and went home to re- 
 flect in quietness upon what had happened to 
 me. To take part in a duel in the capacity of 
 Kermoysan's second was unquestionably an im- 
 portant event for me. It had broken my chrysa- 
 lis cocoon, so to speak, and would henceforth 
 make of me something more than a mere good 
 young man. Then, too, the fact that Kermoy- 
 san had fixed upon me was flattering in the 
 highest degree. It seemed to me that I was 
 about to grow in the opinion of the world, but 
 that, meanwhile, I was becoming greater in my 
 own esteem. To my credit, be it said, this per- 
 sonal side of the affair did not occupy my 
 thoughts for long. I soon forgot my role to 
 think of Kermoysan, and in recalling his words, 
 his air, his inquietude, I came to ask myself two 
 or three questions, that were indiscreet, perhaps, 
 but which my curiosity could not repel. 
 
 Why this duel, that malevolent persons like 
 Malmain could alone consider necessary? Why 
 fight, not on account of the article itself, but in 
 view of others which perhaps never might be 
 written ? Why this haste, this feverish haste, 
 which some persons would not have failed to 
 attribute to an emotion akin to fear, or at least
 
 62 The Sacrijice of Silence. 
 
 to a too conscious, too voluntary courage which 
 its possessor knows can be sustained only for a 
 certain time ? On the other hand, if apprehen- 
 sion, however slight, entered into Kermoysan's 
 anxiety, wherefore an indifference to the detail 
 of conditions that amounted to positive impru- 
 dence ? In reflecting upon these various whys 
 and wherefores I had no doubt that they were 
 connected, the one with the other, and I 
 launched upon a series of conjectures that I 
 flattered myself were very cleverly deducted. 
 
 '• No doubt," thought I in the first place, " he 
 desires absolutely that nothing shall become 
 known about the affair until it is all over : this is 
 to avert any anxiety to a person who is interested 
 
 in him That appears to me quite evident. 
 
 .... And it is a very natural thoughtfulness 
 which demonstrates that he has a tender and 
 delicate soul, a trait well worthy of one whose 
 heart is as noble as his talent is distinguished." 
 
 As I dwelt upon this idea which led me to a 
 few contingent reflections, a suspicion suddenly 
 entered my mind: 
 
 " What if it was not out of pure tenderness 
 that he insisted upon these precautions ! What 
 if he were actuated by a preoccupation of 
 another kind ? What if, for instance, he feared 
 lest the person whom he so dreaded to alarm 
 might not be able to hide the anxiety the duel 
 would occasion ? What if the encounter ap- 
 peared to him dangerous, not to his life, but
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. 63 
 
 to a secret more precious than life, to an equi- 
 librium the establishment and maintenance of 
 which had been his chief, his constant care >" 
 
 The more I thought about it the more plausi- 
 ble this suspicion appeared to me, especially 
 when I came to connect it with the alarm Ker- 
 moysan had manifested at the possibility of 
 further articles being published. 
 
 •' As he himself has said," I thought, " it is not 
 criticism, however- violent, of his literary work 
 that he dreads. If he so greatly fears attacks 
 upon himself it cannot be merely through mod- 
 esty which, however legitimate, would in this 
 particular case be exaggerated; it is because he 
 has a weak point through which he is afraid he 
 will be reached." 
 
 Putting these conjectures together, I concliKled 
 that Andre Kermoysan was actuated by affec- 
 tion, profound, culpable, complicated and secret, 
 which was never absent from his thoughts, and 
 in view of which he calculated all his actions, 
 even those which apparently were in no way 
 related thereto. Thus was explained not only 
 his somewhat strange conduct during the even- 
 ing, but also his renunciation of his former life 
 of amusement, the austerity of his present con- 
 duct, and his habitual indifference to all that 
 went on around him. Then he seemed to me to 
 issue from the sort of mysterious penumbra in 
 \\'hich I had previously always seen him, and I
 
 64 The Sacrijice of Silence. 
 
 fancied that I began to decipher the unknown 
 characters engraved on his brow. 
 
 " And Mme. B asserts that we no longer 
 
 know how to love!" I exclaimed aloud, happy 
 at and satisfied with the little romance I had 
 woven upon a real theme. 
 
 Thereupon I went to bed, after setting my 
 alarm clock for half past four. 
 
 The latter was a very unnecessary precaution. 
 All night in half dreams I witnessed the coming 
 duel, and always I would see Kermoysan lying 
 on the ground, a ghastly wound in his breast, 
 his eyes dimmed by the mist of death. He 
 would call me to him, his lips would move, he 
 would seek to tell me something, a secret the 
 anguish of which would bring back for a mo- 
 ment the brightness to his eyes, but although I 
 made every effort to do so I could not hear his 
 words. Two or three times the face of Mme. 
 Herdevin would enter into my nightmare, 
 vaguely, indistinctly, but I was never able to 
 determine why or wherefore she was there. 
 Then these visions would vanish ; I would re- 
 light my candle only to see that the intermin- 
 able nightmare had lasted but a few minutes. 
 
 Impatient, at last, at not being able to rid my- 
 self of these sinister dreams I rose and took a 
 book to calm myself pending the time ap- 
 pointed. 
 
 On leaving my Toqni I inet Captaw Loz^er jt^ 
 the hallway,
 
 A History — Kci'moysan. 65 
 
 " Feared you might oversleep yourself." he 
 said touching his hat. 
 
 " I haven't closed my eyes," I responded. 
 
 " Don't be afraid! . . . Known him since he 
 was a child. . . . Very brave," he chopped be- 
 tween his teeth. 
 
 " The doctor ?" I asked, unconsciously imitat- 
 ing his laconicism. 
 
 " He'll follow," was the reply. 
 
 And I did not hear the sound of his voice 
 again until we reached Kermoysan's. 
 
 Kermoysan was perfectly calm, without the 
 slightest affectation. In the carriage he spoke 
 little, but the few sentences he did utter showed 
 that his mind was quite at ease. There was a 
 dreamy look in his eyes. I really believe that he 
 was thinking of something else than his duel. It 
 was no doubt the same constant thought, that 
 thought which separated him from others, that 
 isolated him as a prison, that I fancied I had de- 
 ciphered the day before, and which now became 
 clouded in new mysteries. 
 
 We arrived at the place appointed before Lu- 
 cand and his friend, who, however, did not keep 
 us waiting along. Lucaud appeared nervous, or 
 at least more excited than he ought to have been. 
 He watched with ill-disguised attention the pre- 
 parations which the seconds went about in the 
 usual and prescribed way, and of which Kermoy- 
 Sau Qu the other hand took no notice. It was
 
 66 The Sacrifice of Sile-:cc. 
 
 the captain who gave the word for the duel to 
 begin, with the traditional: 
 " Allez, messieurs !" 
 
 At the same time, without taking his eyes off 
 them, he repeated the reassuring remark he had 
 made on greeting me- 
 
 " Very brave. . . . Sure of him. . . . Nothing 
 to fear!" 
 
 I stood in need of this assurance, for I was so 
 agitated that I could not conceal my emotion. 
 
 However, it was soon over. The two adver- 
 saries had not crossed swords more than a minute 
 when Lucand, pricked in the shoulder, dropped 
 nis weapon. His doctor went up to him, de- 
 clared that the wound placed him in a state of 
 inferiority, and it only remained for us to draw 
 up the proces- verbal. As we were finishing it 
 Lucand, whose wound had been dressed, ap- 
 pioached Kermoysan with outstretched hand. 
 Kermoysan looked at him disdainfully, put his 
 hands behind him and walked off while Lucand 
 made a gesture of anger and hatred. 
 
 " I ought to have shaken hands with him," said 
 Kermoysan an instant later. " He w^ill recom- 
 mence and " 
 
 He broke off, remained pensive, then con- 
 cluded with a gesture of uneasiness, 
 
 " One ought never to have any enemies." 
 
 I could not resist connecting these words with 
 the apprehension of further attacks he had ex- 
 pressed the previous day, and again thought my
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 67 
 
 deductions must be very near to the truth. 
 These were strengthened by a little incident. 
 
 We were to lunch together, at Voisin's, I think 
 it was. In passing a news-stand Kermoysan 
 stopped the carriage to buy a Figaro. He opened 
 it, ran his eye ov2r the column of •' Echoes," and 
 uttered an exclamation in which there was more 
 discouragement than anger: 
 
 " Ah ! what a nuisance!" 
 
 At the same time he showed us a paragraph 
 in which the encounter that had just taken place, 
 was announced. 
 
 "What does it matter, since it's all over?" 
 asked the Captain naively. 
 
 " But the proces- verbal will not appear imtil 
 the evening's papers are out," said Kermoysan. 
 
 This remark had escaped him. He bit his lips 
 with vexation, was silent and appeared to be ab- 
 sorbed in deep thought. 
 
 " I must ask your pardon," he said at last, 
 " but I must absolutely " 
 
 He interrupted himself like a man who hesi- 
 tates before making up his mind, then having 
 decided went on: 
 
 " Yes, I positively must go home." 
 
 He gave his address to the coachm.an and 
 lapsed into silence. He seemed much more 
 anxious, much more nervous, than when we set 
 out and did not hide or did not succeed in hiding, 
 his annoyance. 
 
 We waited for him in the carriage while he
 
 68 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 went upstairs. I tried to get into conversation 
 with the captain. 
 
 " It passed off very well," I ventured. 
 
 " Yes. . . . Very well. . . . Said so," he re- 
 plied, and I could only get monosyllables out of 
 him. 
 
 Kermoysan at length came down, carrying a 
 book wrapped in paper. He hailed an empty 
 cab, handed the parcel to the driver, showed him 
 the address, and I heard him repeat twice to the 
 man 
 
 " You will say that you met me as I was com- 
 ing back from the Bois — as I was coming back 
 from the Bois- you understand ?" 
 
 The cabman appeared to understand, and 
 whipped up his horse. Kermoysan rejoined us. 
 
 " Let us go to luncheon," he said. " I am 
 dying of hunger. You also, I imagine." 
 
 And he endeavored to forget his preoccupa- 
 tion. 
 
 " He no doubt has found means to reassure 
 the person he wanted to."' I thought. 
 
 Anyhow he ate with a good appetite and con- 
 versed with animation.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Following these incidents a semi-intimacy that 
 abolished in part the difference in our ages was 
 established between Kermoysan and myself. I 
 saw him often. On his part, without issuing from 
 that reserve which had ended by becoming a 
 trait of his character, he was more cordial to me. 
 He spoke to me with a certain freedom of his 
 work, his reading, his books, but never of him- 
 self. When we met in society he came to me 
 with outstretched hand and a smile that was 
 almost affectionate. When I rang at his door 
 Adolphe received me with that air of confidence 
 that old servants reserve for friends of their 
 masters. Not infrequently Kermoysan, puffing 
 but kindly of manner, climbed my six flights of 
 stairs. Nevertheless he remained a stranger to 
 me, while a doubt prevented me from freely 
 enjoying his friendship; I was always a little 
 afraid that he accorded it as being due becatise 
 he was under an obligation to me. 
 
 By a singular coincidence my relations with 
 Mme. Herdevin also became more familiar, in a 
 similar way. She now treated me as a friend, a 
 very young friend whom one esteems above his 
 years. Our conversations when I called upon 
 her or met her in society became more familiar,
 
 70 TJie Sixcrijicc of Silence. 
 
 free from conventional commonplaces. I thus 
 realized my dream oa first seeing her: I entered 
 into her circle of intimates, I breathed her air, I 
 was able to enjoy her presence, her voice, her 
 charm, that charm to which I was still subjected, 
 and which it would still have been impossible 
 for me to explain. Btit the nearer I got to her, 
 the more the sentiments with which she inspired 
 me became modified: the nuance of love which 
 at the outset tinted them with a vague hope, had 
 given place to an enthusiastic friendship, an 
 absolute and entirely disinterested devotion, as 
 though I had understood that never should I exist 
 for her, that never would she play any part in 
 my life any more than I in hers, that to the end 
 we should remain strangers whose destinies 
 would now and then be slightly mingled by the 
 caprice of fate in episodes the meaning of which 
 might very well escape me. 
 
 On the other hand I could scarcely think of 
 her without at once thinking of Kermoysan. 
 Their two figures, their two names, were asso- 
 ciated in my mind although nothing, absolutely 
 nothing, indicated that there existed any partic- 
 ular tie between them. On the contrary, Ker- 
 moysan visited her less frequently than I did. 
 It is true their conversation, when they isolated 
 themselves for an instant in the corner of some 
 drawing-room, seemed to absorb all their atten- 
 tion; but they never remained together longer 
 than a minute or two, and often they seemed tq
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 71 
 
 avoid rather than seek each other. My impres- 
 sion was none the less acute. I ought to say, 
 though, that it was not definable. I never went 
 so far as to suspect that they wore one for the 
 other that mysterious thought which I read on 
 their brows. 
 
 However closely one observes other people, 
 one sees but little. I flattered myself that I was 
 being treated as a friend by Mme. Herdevin, and 
 at that very moment she was going through a 
 crisis about which everybody was talking while 
 
 I knew nothing about it. It was Mme. B 
 
 who enlightened me. 
 
 " You are still enthusiastic about Mme. Her- 
 devin ?" she queried one day with that kindly 
 irony which she sometimes assumed when talk- 
 ing to me. 
 
 " The better I know her, the more enthusiastic 
 I become," was my reply. 
 
 " Ah I you know her better," she said, accent- 
 uating her irony. " Do yoii know that you are 
 very fortunate ? . . . . These young people ! 
 
 I, who have known her for ten years, 
 
 know her less and less. Do you often call upon 
 her"' 
 
 " As often as I decently can." 
 
 *' That means two or three times a week ?" 
 
 I reddened as I replied : 
 
 " Not quite as often as that." 
 
 " But about that," observed Mme. B 
 
 slyly.
 
 *]2 The Saci'ijice of Silence. 
 
 " And you have never noticed anything par- 
 ticular ?" she asked gazing at me with a slightly 
 taunting look. 
 
 This unexpected question astonished me. 
 
 " Particular ?" I repeated, trying to think what 
 she might mean. " No, nothing; I think not." 
 
 I added: 
 
 " M. Herdevin is never there; you your- 
 self told me that this would be the case. Now 
 and then I have seen her little girl who is ill, 
 and who is much with her, but whom a maid 
 carries away as soon as anybody calls." 
 
 My old friend shook her head. 
 
 " Is that all you have seen ?" she exclaimed. 
 " A husband who is never there, and a child who 
 is ill. Nothing more. Well it is a real case of 
 ' eyes has he and sees not.' " 
 
 When one is young one rather likes to be 
 considered perspicacious. Nevertheless I did 
 not feel mortified at having thus been caugrht, 
 but it seemed to me that anguish seized my 
 heart wnth the sudden fear of a revelation that 
 would spoil Mme. Herdevin in my sight. 
 
 " Is there, then, something else ?" I cried. 
 " What is it ?" 
 
 There was in this cry which escaped me such 
 
 alarm and naivete that Mme. B could not 
 
 help laughing. But her laiighter soon died 
 away and an expression of tender pity came 
 into her face.
 
 A History — Kcnnoysait. "j^ 
 
 " Oh ! dramas," she said sadly, " family 
 dramas." 
 
 " Do you know about them ?" 
 
 " Everybody does; nothing else is spoken of." 
 
 This time I did feel a trifle mortified in my 
 amour-propre as an observer. But curiosity, or 
 rather interest, got the better of every other 
 sentiment. 
 
 " I haven't heard anything said " I 
 
 began. 
 
 Mme B interrupted me : 
 
 " And ' ears has he and hears not I' " 
 
 I capitulated. 
 
 " Yes," I said, " I must acknowledge that I 
 am not very smart." 
 
 She did not keep me begging any longer, 
 
 " Ah !" she began. " The poor woman is very 
 unhappy I Vou know her husband is an abomi- 
 nable man ?" 
 
 " I know it." 
 
 "But you don't know how abominable he is. 
 He torments her, he neglects her, and he de- 
 ceives her — that goes without saying. He robs 
 her a bit, too, I think, for she had a very hand- 
 some fortune which he handles as if it belonged 
 to him. She supports everything without com- 
 plaint. You wouldn't dream of what he has 
 imagined now. He wants positively to get a 
 divorce!" 
 
 Mme. B put into this word all the horror 
 
 that persons of her age and class profess for
 
 74 T^^i(^ Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 divorce, which the Naquet law had just insti- 
 tuted. I could not resist the temptation to show 
 her that upon this point I differed with her. 
 
 " Well," said I, " I think that if I were in her 
 place I should ask nothing better." 
 
 My old friend menaced me with her fan : 
 
 " Be quiet ! You have no principles, you 
 young people of to-day; nothing is sacred for 
 you." 
 
 Then in a graver voice: 
 
 " Besides, in her case it is not a question of 
 theoretical opinion. You forget she is a mother. 
 However unhappy she may be she will bear 
 everything for her children's sake. Two little 
 girls — think of it ! She knows only too well how 
 it passes. In the end it is always the woman 
 who is in the wrong, and the children suffer 
 from it in the future — all their lives." 
 
 " It seems to me, though, that if she suffers 
 too much " 
 
 Mme. B looked at me. 
 
 " A mother," she said, " never suffers so that 
 she will not take upon herself the ill that menaces 
 her children. And then, that is not all. You 
 pretend to know Mme. Herdevin: I see that you 
 know precious little about her. You do not 
 know to what point she is a ' woman ' in the best 
 sense of the word. Now, women — good women 
 — have certain delicate instincts and sentiments 
 that never will adapt themselves to your laws, 
 even though you profess to make these laws for
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 75 
 
 women. That to which we cling more than to 
 happiness, more than to anything else, is the 
 right to keep our sentiments and our life for 
 ourselves. There is not one of us — I allude to 
 those who count for anything — who is not ready 
 to sacrifice the peace of her existence to avert a 
 scandal. That is certainly how Mme. Herdevin 
 feels; of this you can be sure. For that matter, 
 she has told me so — for she confides in me some- 
 times. Yes, the other day, in confirming the 
 rumors about her family troubles that have been 
 circulating, she said in substance this: 
 
 " ' I will never give in, whatever he may do. 
 I have a certain ideal of propriety from which I 
 will not swerve at any price. I will not have 
 anything in my life that can give rise to discus- 
 sion. I should die were I to see my name in 
 the papers and to know that it is in everybody's 
 mouth.' 
 
 " This is how she spoke to me, and it is truly 
 the language of a woman. What do you think 
 about it, monsieur the psychologist ?" 
 
 Feeling I must say something I observed: 
 " Then it is the religion of silence ?" 
 
 " That is it exactly," said Mme. B , " the 
 
 religion of silence. It is a religion that is com- 
 mon to all people of heart. And no one knows 
 the heavy sacrifices which it sometimes im- 
 poses." 
 
 At this instant the memory of Kermoysan's 
 duel came into my mind, although there was no
 
 76 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 visible correlation between the efforts which he 
 had made to keep his encounter with Liicand 
 from becoming known and the sacrifice which 
 the fear of scandal cost ]Mme. Hcrdevin. It 
 came to me so rapidly that I almost blurted out 
 a remark I should have regretted. I checked 
 myself in time, however, and asked instead: 
 
 " But why is he so bent upon getting a divorce, 
 this horrible man ? Is his wife in his wav ?" 
 
 " Not in the least. He doesn't exist for her. 
 She allows him all the freedom he can desire. 
 So much so that one might think she sees noth- 
 ing he does, or rather that she doesn't see him 
 himself, that she ignores him utterly." 
 
 " Well, then ?" 
 
 " Can't you guess ?" 
 
 " No." 
 
 " Decidedly, you don't know any more about 
 men than you do about women. Come, now; 
 reflect a little. How is it that a man of his 
 stamp can want a divorce ?" 
 
 " From motives of interest ?" 
 
 " That might be, of course, but it isn't. Her- 
 devin wants a divorce so that he can marry a 
 good-for-nothing hussy . . . Yes, that's it, 
 purely and simply . . . You sec, there is a 
 justice. Rascals such as he always end by get- 
 ting hold of a woman who is even worse than 
 themselves. That is precisely what has hap- 
 pened in this instance. He wants to get rid of 
 his wife for the benefit of the jade who has been
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. 77 
 
 fleecing him for two or three years and now 
 that she is gorged with his money wants his 
 name as well. That's how it is. What do you 
 think of it ?" 
 
 At this moment a visitor was announced and 
 the conversation changed. I took but little part 
 in it. I was thinking upon what I had just 
 heard. " What !" said I to myself, " there are so 
 many sorrows borne daily, such ceaseless resig- 
 nation m an existence with which I am more or 
 less in contact, and I have noticed nothing, seen 
 not a trace, not a sign that would have led me 
 to suspect it ' Ah ! the religion of silence is a 
 fine and strong rehgion! It tries its adepts 
 sorely: it tempers them, it must ennoble them." 
 
 And I added : 
 
 " But one never knows all the secrets it en- 
 velops in its mysteries. V/ho knows but what 
 this poor woman has other unknown sorrows — or 
 perchance joys, joys as mysterious as her suffer- 
 ing, or even better dissembled, by which she is 
 consoled ?"
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 One day I called at Kermoysan's to thank 
 him for a service he had rendered me in connec- 
 tion with a book I was publishing. As usual 
 honest Adolphe opened the door, but instead of 
 beaming upon mo as he ordinarily did, he wore 
 a very disconsolate air. 
 
 " Ah ' monsieur," he said, shaking his vener- 
 able head, " what a misfortune !" 
 
 " What is the matter ?" I demanded in alarm. 
 
 " What is the matter, monsieur ? The matter 
 is that my master is going away . . . And 
 to such countries! We who were so quiet and 
 comfortable^" 
 
 He added, lowering his voice: 
 
 " It's far better to be the servant of a good 
 master than to be in the service of the govern- 
 ment, I can tell you." 
 
 I did not wait to answer him, but hurried in. 
 Kermoysan, in fez and smoking jacket, notwith- 
 standing that it was nearly three o'clock, was 
 putting his study in order. 
 
 " It is true that you are going away ?" I asked 
 as I shook hands with him. 
 
 " Yes .... order from the Ministry .... 
 aboard the Triton. "" 
 
 " And — you don't care about it ?" 
 [78J
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan, 79 
 
 " Not much. I had some business to attend 
 to, proofs of a volume to read. Really, I should 
 very much have preferred to spend the winter 
 here." 
 
 He added: 
 
 " I have got to go to Senegal. I don't like 
 Africa much." 
 
 " You would have preferred to go somewhere 
 else ?" 
 
 " Yes, without doubt, elsewhere." 
 
 Then, shrugging his shoulders, and without 
 noticing the fact that he was contradicting what 
 he had just said he continued : 
 
 " Besides, it was time I did travel a little. One 
 gets rusty sticking always in the same place." 
 
 He was more absent-minded, more close than 
 ever. Seeing that it was disagreeable to him to 
 speak about his departure, I broached the sub- 
 ject of the business that had brought me there. 
 He scarcely listened to my thanks, and merely 
 remarked in a tone of the utmost indifference: 
 
 " You have succeeded ? Good. So much the 
 better! So much the better!" 
 
 I saw that he wished to be alone and took my 
 leave. 
 
 " I hope to see you again," he said as he 
 showed me to the door. 
 
 And it seemed to me that he said, on the con- 
 trary, such discouragement was there in hi§ 
 voice ; •
 
 8o The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 " Come, or don't come, it's all the same to me, 
 for everything is all the same to me. now!" 
 
 The news of his approaching departure spread 
 rapidly among his circle of friends, and much 
 regret was expressed. Why could not the 
 Ministry leave him alone ? Why should it have 
 fixed upon Kermoysan, who had friends and 
 talent, when there were at its disposal so many 
 unknown and unimportant officers who were only 
 too ready to go globe trotting ? 
 
 " The Government is always doing things like 
 
 that," remarked Mme. B , in accord with 
 
 Adolphe on this point. ",One should never be 
 at the Government's orders!" 
 
 The time passed rapidly. Kermoysan, who 
 was more sought after than ever, scarcely had 
 time to make his preparations for the voyage. 
 He no longer complained at having to go; on 
 the contrary, 
 
 " It is my profession," he said. " I love it. 
 Australia, Africa, America, what does it matter ? 
 One is well off wherever one goes." 
 
 Occasionally, though, he lapsed into pensive 
 silence, from which he aroused himself as soon 
 as he saw that he was observed; then he talked 
 too much, as people do who not only seek to 
 hide their real thoughts, but also the fact that 
 they are thinking of anything in particular. His 
 own, undecipherable thought was ever there. 
 
 On the eve of the day fixed for his departure 
 Mme, B ^gave a dinner in his honor to
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 8i 
 
 which only a few of his personal friends were 
 invited. I was among them, and found myself 
 seated next to Mme. Herdevin. She was less 
 talkative, more distracted, more absent than 
 customary. Vainly I sought to interest her; she 
 scarcely replied, and then only with effort. Now 
 and then she appeared to follow the general con- 
 versation, but I could see that she was not really 
 listening and that her air of interest was assumed 
 in order to give greater freedom to her thoughts. 
 Seated almost opposite to her, Kermoysan spoke 
 spasmodically, without any animation. At one 
 time, during one of those intervals of silence 
 which always occur in assemblies when the con- 
 versation languishes, I heard him reply in about 
 the following terms to some remark of his neigh- 
 bor. 
 
 " There is no use in disguising the fact, Mad- 
 ame, the hour of departure is always a serious 
 one. I have never started, even on a short 
 voyage, without feeling some emotion. It is as 
 though the thread of your destiny were being 
 broken; you know well enough that it will be 
 knotted together again, or, at leas*-, that it proba- 
 bly will be, but you do not know how. One 
 would have to be frivolous indeed, to set out 
 without experiencing some inquietude in face of 
 the unknown, and very insensible to leave with- 
 out regrets." 
 
 I looked at Mme. Herdevin. She had lowered
 
 82 The Sacrifice of Sile7ice. 
 
 her eyes. Turning toward me, while the con- 
 versation revived around the table, she said: 
 
 " M. Kermoysan must be blase as to these 
 emotions: he has experienced them so often!" 
 
 Her voice, it seemed to me, was slightly 
 stifled. I was about to respond with some com- 
 monplace remark when I heard at the other side 
 of the table, the hoarse laugh of Herdevin, who 
 for a wonder had accompanied his wife. My 
 neighbor turned away with an expression so 
 pained, so tragical, that the remark died on my 
 lips. 
 
 In the smoking room, where Mme. B sent 
 
 those of her guests who wanted to enjoy a cigar, 
 Herdevin buttonholed Kermoysan and asked him 
 what he thoiight of negresses. 
 
 " For there's nothing else out there, eh ?" he 
 queried. 
 
 Kermoysan answered coldly: 
 
 " Their skin is oily, I have nothing to do with 
 them." 
 
 " For my part " said Herdevin, 
 
 And he began to explain with much gesticula- 
 tion and laughter his opinion upon women and 
 his theory of love. Kermoysan listened to him 
 with ill-disguised impatience; he was becoming 
 visibly restless. ' Finally, he interrupted him, say- 
 ing with his loftiest air, and with a coldness that 
 was positively rude: 
 
 " There are as many manners of judging wo- 
 men as there are different qualities of men."
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 8 
 
 J 
 
 And they went on to talk about Senegal. 
 
 On returning to the drawing room I noticed 
 that Mme. Herdevin was very pale, and could 
 
 hardly keep tip. Mme. B , in fact, went 
 
 over to her and inquired affectionately: 
 
 " Are you unwell, dear ? ' 
 
 " I have a bit of a headache, but it does not 
 amount to much: it is nothing to s^peak of," 
 Mme. Hendevin assured her. 
 
 Her face which v^'as becom'ing drawn in an 
 expression of pain that amounted to agony, be- 
 lied this assurance. 
 
 One of the charms of Mme. B 's large 
 
 salon was that it was made up of recesses ar- 
 ranged with infinite art with screens, easy chairs 
 and little tables in such wise that a general con- 
 versation was impossible. Mme. B detested 
 
 a general conversation. Witty people, she de- 
 clared, were always a little more stupid when 
 they spoke for the gallery than when en tete-a- 
 tete, and that, besides, it was next to impossible 
 to get more than four people together without 
 there being at least one fool among them. She 
 thought she was making it more pleasant for her 
 guests by dividing them tip into little parties. 
 Groups therefore were formed. I was unlucky; 
 I was made the victim of Herdevin . He forced 
 me into a corner of a two- place sofa, ensconced 
 himself at his ease and without regard to my 
 comfort, crossed his legs, and began to talk aboi:t
 
 84 Tfi-c Sacrijice of Silence. 
 
 his horses, his affairs, his clubs and his mis- 
 tresses. 
 
 Fortunately he was one of those persons who 
 are quite willing to do ail the talking themselves 
 and do not exact replies. Now and then I 
 grunted approval, nodded my head with an atten- 
 tive air, uttered an occasional ' yes,' and he was 
 perfectly satisfied. It got at last so that his talk 
 did not disturb me more than the recitation of a 
 monologue or the singing of an air from an opera, 
 and I thought only of vague things and watched, 
 not without envy, the other groups. 
 
 I could not see Kermoysan. " Has he already 
 left ?" I asked myself as I looked around. He 
 had not, and at last I caught sight of him. He 
 was in one of the angles of the salon, seated be- 
 side Mme. Herdevin on a sofa similar to that in 
 which I was forcibly detained. They were 
 partly hidden by a small English screen of pale 
 green polished wood and the large leaves of the 
 plants in a jardiniere. They were practically 
 isolated in this quiet corner, and thanks to the 
 customs of the house could stay there without 
 attracting too much attention. They v\'ere talk- 
 ing slowly, without looking at each other. Often 
 Mme. Herdevin's face almost disappeared behind 
 her fan. They were in the shadow, but a lamp 
 having been moved the light fell suddenly upon 
 Kermoysan's visage. With an instinctive ges- 
 ture he passed his hand over his eyes and turned 
 his face away. It did not last two seconds, but
 
 A Histo7'y — Ker7noysa7t. 85 
 
 I was gazing at him then, and how could I not 
 have been struck by his expression ? His impas- 
 sibility had vanished : another, an unknown man 
 had suddenly appeared to me, a man with an 
 anguished, passionate, sorrowful face, a face of 
 indescribable agony and despair that was at once 
 hidden in the shadow. I was so astonished that 
 I asked myself whether I had seen clearly or 
 whether his features had not been deformed by 
 a sudden dimness of my sight. Then I thought: 
 
 " I guessed aright : they are very intimate. 
 Perhaps she is his confidant. Perhaps he is 
 confiding a last message to her, is forgetting 
 himself for an instant and showmg himself as he 
 really is." 
 
 About eleven o'clock M. Herdevin pulled out 
 his watch and exclaimed: 
 
 "Oh! oh!" 
 
 I understood that probably having an appoint- 
 ment to keep he had decided to terminate the 
 monologue that our conversation had practically 
 amounted to. He rose; I hastened to follow his 
 example. 
 
 " Where is my wife ?" he asked, looking 
 around. 
 
 Then perceiving her: 
 
 " Ah ! there she is, with the lion of the fete. 
 Let's go and disturb them." 
 
 Taking my arm he went towards her. They 
 saw us coming. They had recovered their calm- 
 ness or had had time to pull themselves together.
 
 86 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 for I observed nothing but what was perfectly 
 natural in their attitude. 
 
 " You know it's getting late," said M. Herdevin 
 to his wife. " I'd like to be getting home." 
 
 She rose as though impelled by a spring, 
 
 " Let us go home then," she replied. 
 
 She turned to her companion. 
 
 " Monsieur Kermoysan," she said, " I wish you 
 a pleasant voyage — and I bid you au revoir." 
 
 Kermoysan, who had risen at the same time 
 bowed. 
 
 " Thank you, Madame, thank you," he said. 
 " Au revoir." 
 
 There was nothing in all this that could have 
 excited the slightest comment; the tone, the 
 words, the gestures, differed in no way from 
 those usually employed in similar circumstances 
 between persons who know each other suffi- 
 ciently to manifest a little interest, if only out of 
 pure politeness. What set me thinking was pre- 
 cisely this apparent banalite of their farewell. It 
 contrasted too sharply with the emotion whose 
 traces I had just before surprised. I was in a 
 measure forced to say to myself: 
 
 " If they are close friends, they hide their 
 friendship well." 
 
 And for the first time a definite suspicion 
 crossed my mind. 
 
 I dismissed it. Mme. Herdevin lived in the 
 light of day: there could be no mystery in her 
 existence, Besides, how could I admit that it
 
 A History — Kermoysan. %"] 
 
 was possible for a liaison to exist between two 
 persons whom I saw constantly, without its hav- 
 ing been perceived by me, any more than by 
 any other of their common friends ? Things 
 like that are always divined. 
 
 Kermoysan went the rounds of the groups, 
 exchanging in all tranquility, and with the polite- 
 ness of a perfect society man a few remarks with 
 each. One would have thought that he had for- 
 gotten all about his journey or that he took pleas- 
 ure in prolonging his last evening as much as 
 possible. He was among the last to leave. I 
 accompanied him, and bade him adieu beside 
 the cab that he had hailed. 
 
 " Shall we not hear from you ?" I asked. 
 
 " Most certainly; I shall write to my friends," 
 he replied without hesitation. 
 
 " Do you count me among them ?" I asked 
 again. 
 
 " Do not doubt it, I pray." 
 
 There was an almost affectionate accent in his 
 voice. He added: 
 
 " Do not be surprised to get a long letter from 
 me." 
 
 We shook hands. His cab whisked him away 
 in the night, while I went off afoot towards the 
 Rue Lafayette. 
 
 I needed to walk and to breathe the cold air, 
 for I was positively moved. There are some 
 people who weep at every funeral, even at those 
 which they attend by chance. Well, in those
 
 88 The Sacrijlce of Silence. 
 
 days, leave takings easily had the same effect 
 upon me. I know of nothing more sad. There 
 is something bitter, cruel, heart-breaking in the 
 thought of that distance which will increase a 
 little more every day between you and the person 
 who is going away to be swallowed up by space. 
 Separation has not, like death, the excuse of 
 fatality. It will be maintained that, on the 
 other hand, it leaves the hope of meeting again. 
 Poor hope, which is so feeble when the time for 
 parting comes, which opens the door to so many 
 mortal pangs ! I liked Kermoysan too much not 
 to feel this emotion keenly. Then when I had 
 overcome it, I thought of the unknown woman 
 he loved, for I had no doubt of the existence or 
 of the violence of this sentiment with which it 
 pleased me to credit him. What a scene must 
 have been the farewell between them ! Did he 
 preserve any of his sang-froid, he who lost it 
 when merely speaking of her ? Farewells, tears, 
 despair, furious and vain revolts against destiny, 
 all the depth of love's distress. Alas ! I was far 
 from suspecting, what later I found was the 
 case, that this scene had been enacted under my 
 eyes, that the formal an revoir exchanged in my 
 presence was the only one they could permit 
 their hearts !
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Generally the absent are soon forgotten: 
 too many small cares daily have claims on our 
 attention for it to fly off to the other end of the 
 world after a wanderer, especially as there are 
 always about us people eager to take the places 
 which departures have vacated. This however 
 was not the case as far as Kermoysan was con- 
 cerned. Although he was very far away he was 
 not out of mind. His enemies had not laid 
 down their arms, and Mai main never missed an 
 opporttmity to exercise his venomous tongue at 
 his expense. His friends not only preserved 
 their whole affection for him, but gave such a 
 large place to him in their conversations, that 
 sometimes he seemed to be present. His name 
 moreover appeared from time to time in the re- 
 views as though to keep alive the memory of it. 
 Under his well known pseudonym were published 
 impressions of his travels, in which the descrip- 
 tions of the places he visited held a smaller place 
 than those of his state of mind, now tender, now 
 bizarre. 
 
 I kept a few of these fragments which have 
 not been collected in volimie form. The follow- 
 ing is a specimen: 
 
 [89]
 
 QO TJic Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 "The sea flees, always changins;, always the 
 same. It ripples in shivers of infinite tints of 
 blue to the edge of the inaccessible horizon 
 where ling-er at eventide the chimerical confla- 
 grations of the setting sun. Kindly night de- 
 scends, starless, sometimes. I am at my post on 
 the poop, gazing into the mystery which sur- 
 rounds me, inspiring with the full force of my 
 lungs the salt, cool air, listening to the monoto- 
 nous wash, wash, wash of the rolling vessel. For 
 awhile I pace to and fro; then stand still, mo- 
 tionless. By degrees my immobility grows into 
 rigidity, as though an outside force had stopped 
 the action of my nerves and muscles, as though 
 I were hypnotized by the distant, dominant gaze 
 of an invisible eye. Then all sensation is lost. 
 I am plunged into a nothingness, as it were, of 
 which I am vaguely conscious, a nothingness 
 that absorbs my senses, while the most secret 
 part of my being continues to live with a life 
 intense and multiplied, in the yonder of space 
 and time, evoking minutes long passed that can 
 never return, calling, to others, yet unknown, 
 with an intensity of desire which, for a second, 
 clothes them with a fantastic reality that how- 
 ever vanishes then and there. It seems to me 
 that I am folding up, that I am shrinking, that I 
 am contracting; my feet no longer feel the deck 
 that bears me, my hands no longer feel the bul- 
 wark upon which they rest, my eyes no longer 
 distinguish the night. All that is me concen-
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 9 1 
 
 trates into a sing^le spot, into a burning internal 
 centre that consumes me. Is it suffering or joy? 
 I know not, oh! I know not; but I would live 
 again forever, to all eternity, these hours which 
 must resemble the ecstasies of mystics or the 
 dreams of opium eaters. Sail on, O ship, come 
 unknown shores, come trailing plants of the trop- 
 ics, come great, red, unnamed butterflies, come 
 the new landscapes that await me ; I carry within 
 me flowers more beautiful, horizons more vast, 
 a world of thoughts that beggars words, that I 
 express not, but amid which I can wander and 
 lose myself more surely than in virgin forests, in 
 an inebriation sweeter than that caused by the 
 most marvellous perfumes." 
 
 And later: 
 
 "I have loved the scenes of the land. Erst- 
 while my eyes feasted to satiety upon the play 
 of the light, the brilliancy of the flowers, the ma- 
 jesticness of the lines, the grandeur or charm of 
 landscapes. I loved, too, the sotmds of silence 
 in the solitudes: at times my heart dilated \\'ith 
 an infinite joy although there was nothing to 
 make it glad save the sweet, mysteriously sympa- 
 thetic influences of nature. This joy is no longer 
 known to me. I am, alas I no longer the slave, 
 the happy slave, of those fugacious impressions 
 which the senses impart to us, and which a mere 
 puff of the breeze effaces! I hold towards the 
 external world a bitter independence from which 
 I cannot deliver myself. I belong to my
 
 ^2 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 thoughts. It is from my own being that arise 
 those images the contemplation of which fills me 
 with ecstasy. It is no longer the varied, capri- 
 cious and beautiful forms of nature; it is memo- 
 ries, "hopes, frail and ever ready to vanish, that I 
 retain, that I savor, that I caress. These fugitive 
 sentiments assume in niy mind I know not what 
 character of eternity, of an eternity more lasting 
 than that of things which survive us, than that 
 of oceans which never run dry, of rivers whose 
 waters are ever renewed, of continents that with- 
 stand the quakings of the globe. Thus I travel 
 through unknown lands without seeing anything 
 save what is reflected in my internal mirror." 
 
 And again: 
 
 "God! .... I will believe in Him. He must 
 exist for me. I need that He should exist. I 
 see Him, I feel Him, not in the splendor of ter- 
 restrial scenery where some coarse minds seek 
 Him, but in my very self, far beyond my 
 thoughts, whose monotonous play recommences 
 each morning, when my dreams end. By a slow 
 path, tortuous, strewn w^ith obstacles, I advance 
 towards Him. The insignificance of the world 
 brings me nearer to Him. Peradventure am I 
 already nearer to Him than to the sands in 
 which my feet sink, to the waters into which I 
 plimge that I may feel their coolness. I call to 
 Him with all my thirst of eternity. I would feel 
 myself in His hand: there I should be free from 
 so many trammels that weigh me down! And
 
 A History — Kej^moysan. 93 
 
 lo! my heart bursts forth into song, into inex- 
 pressible canticles." 
 
 Neither in substance nor in form did these 
 exalted effusions resemble anything previously 
 written by Kermoysan. They therefore caused 
 not a little surprise to those who read them and 
 gave rise to lively discussion upon his state of 
 mind which everybody defined in his own way. 
 I remember that after one of these fragments 
 had been read someone exclaimed: 
 
 •' This sort of thing leads straight to Saint 
 Sulpice Seminary." 
 
 Malmain, who was present, added maliciously: 
 " Or to the Charenton Lunatic Asylum." 
 And, in fact, it was agreed that Kermoysan 
 was no longer the same, and that his notes which 
 he published without considering what effect 
 they would produce, did betray a sort of aberra- 
 tion. Society is prone to render such judgments : 
 it treats as a madman whoever departs from its 
 habitual moderation, which, at bottom, is really 
 nothing but indifference.
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 During Kermoysan's absence Herdevin lost 
 large sums of money. At one time his probable 
 failure was spoken of. But beneath the coarse 
 pleasure-lover was a fighter, a man of energy 
 and resource. After a few days' struggle he 
 pulled himself round. He had changed nothing 
 in his mode of life. All that was known was 
 that he had sold an extensive estate that his wife 
 owned in the Department of the Allier. She had 
 been greatly attached to it. It was a family es- 
 tate, the house in which she had been born, the 
 garden in which she had played and the woods 
 in which she had roamed when a child. Every 
 summer she had been accustomed to spend sev- 
 eral weeks there, and always looked forward to 
 her stay with peculiar pleasure. The sale must 
 have caused her keen sorrow, but no one seeing 
 her always serene would have suspected it. 
 One had to know her a little to realize what re- 
 signation there was beneath her serenity, and to 
 hear behind the indifferent remarks she uttered 
 with her crystal voice the moan of her wounded 
 heart. Mme. B would say to me some- 
 times : 
 
 [94]
 
 A History — Kcnnoysan. 95 
 
 *' Look at her ; who would suspect what her 
 life is ?" 
 
 Why then did I often fancy that between her 
 sufferings as a wife and her sufferings as a 
 mother there was another wound in her heart, a 
 pain that others knew nothing of ? Certain de- 
 tails of her life contradicted such a suspicion, 
 and one might well have wondered how in an 
 existence so well filled there could be room for a 
 romance; for a romance occupies a good deal 
 of tirne, and entails absences from home that are 
 difficult to justify, lies that in the end are always 
 seen through, the complicity of a maid or of 
 other persons. How was all this possible in her 
 case ? 
 
 At the beginning of the season Mme. Her- 
 devin had announced to her friends that she 
 would not be able to go out very often, as the 
 condition of her little Martha had grown worse, 
 and caused her the greatest anxiety; but her 
 husband, fearing that her seclusion would be 
 attributed to the financial embarrassment which 
 he sought to dissemble insisted that she should 
 go into society more often than ever. Where- 
 fore she was to be met everywhere, bearing her 
 hidden grief valiantly amid the small talk of the 
 drawing rooms, watching for the chance to re- 
 turn to the little bedside where her heart was 
 calling her. 
 
 It sometimes happened that T called upon her 
 a little before her hours. On several occasions \
 
 g6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 found her in her boudoir, where propped up with 
 cushions on a sofa poor httle Martha, withered 
 and shrunken, her pale pain-drawn face illu- 
 mined by eyes all too bright, pushed her 
 toys away with her long, thin fingers. I shall 
 never forget the child's look of reproach and dis- 
 tress as she was taken away " because visitors 
 were coming." She made no resistance, how- 
 ever, and Mme. Herdevin would say: 
 
 " Ah ! you cannot tell how I love her! I would 
 like to do nothing else but care for her, attend 
 to her myself alone, and not leave her even for 
 a minute. She is such a dear, sweet child." 
 
 Once she added: 
 
 " I know that she cannot live." 
 
 And her eyes filled with tears.
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 Unlike many travellers, Kermoysan wrote to 
 his friends very often. These letters were of an 
 entirely different character to the " impressions " 
 he wrote for publication. They contained full 
 details of what he was doing, his mode of life, 
 and his movements, so that one could almost fol- 
 low him from day to day. As maybe imagined, 
 these letters were widely circulated : fragments 
 of them were read at five o'clock teas or at cosy 
 soirees, and they were much commented i:pon 
 and discussed. I noticed that Mme. B re- 
 ceived several at brief intervals whereas Mme. 
 Herdevin did not get a single one. I received 
 one myself, as Kermoysan had given me to hope 
 I would, and this under circumstances which 
 made it of particular value. 
 
 One of those newspapers which are more eager 
 to get news than to tell the truth published a 
 dispatch one day announcing that the Triton had 
 been lost with all on board off the Senegalian 
 coast. The date of the wreck was given together 
 with certain details the object of which no doubt 
 was to impart a greater appearance of veracity 
 to the story. No news of the disaster had been 
 received at the Ministry of Marine, however, and 
 this fact afforded some ground for hope. Ker- 
 
 [97]
 
 98 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 moysan's friends were naturally extremely anx- 
 ious, and for two or three days the possible loss 
 of the Triton was the sole topic of conversation. 
 The probability of the news was discussed with 
 that mixture of interest and indifference, easily 
 aroused pity and ready forgetfulness that go to 
 make up social compassion. Opinion varied 
 according to the character of those who gave 
 
 expression to them. Mme. B , optimistic 
 
 as usual, scouted the idea that the report could 
 be true, with a good faith that reassured me. 
 
 " It is impossible," she insisted. " Otherwise 
 the Ministry would know about it." 
 Others shook their heads and replied: 
 " At the Ministry they never know anything." 
 Everybody, therefore, waited in suspense. 
 It was precisely at this time that I received a 
 long letter from Kermoysan. On opening it I 
 saw at once that the date was several days later 
 than that on which the catastrophe was alleged 
 to have occurred, and all doubt upon the mat- 
 ter was consequently dispelled. 
 
 Very happy to be reassured myself, and a little 
 proud at being able to reassure his friends I 
 
 hastened to call upon Mme. B , whom 
 
 Kermoysan mentioned among several other 
 persons, including Mme. Herdevin to whom he 
 wished to be remembered. I was fortunate 
 enough to find the two women together. They 
 were alone, and received me with an informality 
 that was favorable to confidences. Mme. Her-
 
 A History — Kcnnoysan. 99 
 
 devin appeared to be unwell. There was in her 
 sweet and tender eyes a glimmer of anguish, of 
 contained despair, a rigid fixity which stiuck me 
 the more inasmuch as I had not seen her for 
 some time. I did not hesitate to attribute this 
 change to personal cares; I even thought that 
 she had been unburdening her mind to my old 
 friend, so that the effect I hoped to produce 
 would be lost. I was mistaken. 
 
 " We were talking about poor Kermoysan," 
 
 said Mme. B , as she invited me to take a 
 
 seat opposite to them. " We were saying " 
 
 Satisfied now as to the opportuneness of my 
 news I interrupted her: 
 
 " Well, madame, you can be quite easy about 
 him. I have just received a letter from him, 
 which I have brought with me. As you will see 
 it is dated a week later than the day of the 
 alleged accident. The report therefore is false." 
 
 I handed the precious letter to the two women. 
 
 There was in their respective attitudes a dif- 
 ference such that it would have been impossible 
 
 not to notice it. Mme. B , expansive by 
 
 nature, at once manifested her joy. 
 
 " Ah ! the brave fellow!" she exclaimed glanc- 
 ine at the sheet which she held out to her com- 
 panion. " How glad I am I He will never know 
 what days of worry he has caused us." 
 
 Mme. Herdevin, w^as bending over the paper, 
 which she had laid upon her muff. She did not 
 utter a word. I w^as standing in front of her.
 
 loo TJie Sac7'ijlce of Silence. 
 
 I saw only the almost imperceptible movement 
 of her lowered eyelids, bnt I fancied I heard her 
 sigh several times, a prey to an emotion which 
 she tried hard to contain. 
 
 " May we read it ?" queried Mme. B . 
 
 I nodded affirmatively, and turning to Mme. 
 Herdevin she asked : 
 
 " Are you reading it ?" 
 
 Mme. Herdevin did not raise her eyes, nor 
 did she answer immediately; but in a few 
 seconds she stammered : 
 
 " I am trying to ... . since we have per- 
 mission It is very difficult 
 
 This handwriting is frightful !" 
 
 " That is true," said Mme. B . " One 
 
 would think a fly had been crawling over the 
 paper." 
 
 Then turning to me she added: 
 
 " Suppose you read it to us; you are used to 
 deciphering bad scribbling." 
 
 " Very willingly," said I. 
 
 Mme. Herdevin's hand trembled slightly as 
 she handed back the letter, which I began to read 
 aloud. I had to stop occasionally to make oiit 
 the small, indistinct writing with which I was 
 not familiar. It was a very detailed account of 
 a week passed at St. Louis, Senegal, which 
 seemed to be the natural sequence of previous 
 narratives, and to take up its author's life at a 
 point where he had left off. The thread of it 
 was interrupted at frequent intervals by notes,
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. loi 
 
 observations and reflections, so that the letter 
 filled eight or ten pages. It was the letter of an 
 indolent man, written slowly, in his hours of 
 
 idleness, to kill time. Mme. B , with her 
 
 habitual vivacity of mind interrupted me from 
 time to time, with such remarks, for instance, 
 as: 
 
 " Do you know that it is longer drawn out 
 than his books ? He hasn't spared you the 
 smallest detail." 
 
 Or: 
 
 " What talent ! One can see all that he de- 
 scribes: one is positively in Senegal itself. All 
 said and done, it's a nasty place : I prefer Paris." 
 
 Mme. Herdevin remained silent; but when, 
 having finished reading, I glanced at her I 
 thought that another woman was before me. 
 The care, anguish and pain with which her face 
 had been drawn had vanished as by magic. 
 She was beaming with a secret joy that was 
 more difiicult to dissemble than sorrow, and her 
 beautiful eyes were tender and moist. 
 
 " I was rather surprised at this nice letter," I 
 remarked. " I never would have believed that 
 Kermoysan would honor me with such friend- 
 ship." 
 
 " One must never be surprised at anything he 
 
 does," said Mme. B . " And for that 
 
 matter, you needn't be too proud. He's fond of 
 writing." 
 
 Then addressing Mme. Herdevin she asked ;
 
 I02 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 " Haven't you had a letter from him yet ?" 
 
 This unexpected question embarrassed Mme, 
 Herdevin. 
 
 " Why," she said, becoming pale, " I do not 
 expect one. We are not intimate enough for 
 him to write to me." 
 
 "Oh! I'm sure he likes you very much," 
 
 Mme. B assured her. " You needn't be 
 
 afraid; your turn will come!" 
 
 " He writes very often. Was he such a faith- 
 ful correspondent during his previous voyages ?" 
 I asked. 
 
 " He was not," replied Mme. B . " He 
 
 left us practically without news. Just a word or 
 two now and then : ' I am here, I am in good 
 health, I am bored!' That was all. You see, 
 he was too youug. The taste for letter paper 
 only comes to those who are getting old. I 
 wager you will not find time to reply to him." 
 
 " Indeed I shall, Madame," and at length, I 
 answered. 
 
 " Be sure you tell how alarmed about him we 
 were." 
 
 At this moment a cloud came over Mme. Her- 
 devin's brow again. 
 
 " Can we be quite satisfied that he is safe ?" 
 she queried timidly. 
 
 We looked at her in astonishment, and she ex- 
 plained, seeking her words carefully: 
 
 " This letter, it is true, shows that at the date 
 of the dispatch no accident had yet occurred.
 
 A History — Kermoysaii. 103 
 
 But may it not have happened later ? Perhaps 
 the mistake was only in the date." 
 
 I endeavored to reassure her, and Mme. 
 B came to my support. 
 
 "What a wild ideal" cried my old friend. 
 " Doubt is no longer possible. The report was 
 false, that is evident. Kermoysan is as well as 
 ever he was, is not forgetting any of his friends 
 and will return to us one of these fine mornings, 
 a little weather beaten, a little worn, but always 
 the same. That is as clear as daylight." 
 
 Mme. Herdevin did not insist, but I saw that 
 she had become anxious again, with that un- 
 reasonable anxiety which finds ground for being 
 even in things which are against evidence; an 
 anxiety peculiar to those who love, and which 
 the presence and voice of the loved one can alone 
 dispel. 
 
 These incidents drew my attention again to 
 the probable mystery of Kermoysan's life. 
 
 " Evidently," I argued, " he writes so many 
 and such lengthy letters in the hope that news 
 of him will reach a person to whom, for some 
 reason or other, he cannot write directly." 
 
 And the attitude of Mme. Herdevin, the fact 
 that she alone of all his intimate friends had 
 not, or would not admit that she had, received 
 a letter from him, the nature of her emotion 
 and her eftorts to conceal it, and her anxiety, so 
 much deeper, so much keener than ours, — all 
 these signs, taken together, gave definite shape
 
 104 ^'^'<" Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 to my suspicions. She loved him; that I no 
 longer doubted. Was she loved in return ' 
 Was it she of whom Kermoysan was ceaselessly 
 thinking ? That I could not tell. 
 
 However, I thought I did well in waiting of 
 her at length in my reply to Kermoysan. I re- 
 counted the little I knew about her recent finan- 
 cial embarrassments; I gave a few details about 
 her home and little Martha; I dwelt upon the 
 anxiety she had manifested when the false news 
 of the loss of the Triton was announced, and of 
 the deep interest she had taken in his reassuring 
 letter; I even ventured to urge my friend to 
 write to her, and endeavored to insinuate with 
 all possible delicacy that his reserve towards her 
 when he was so prodigal of his letters to other 
 people might come to be regarded as singular 
 by some people. It was advice almost that I 
 gave to him in very covered phrases. I never 
 knew whether he saw through my oratorical 
 precautions and if he did whether he followed 
 the advice. However this may be, Mme. Her- 
 devin never spoke of having received a letter 
 from him.
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 Kermoysan's absence was prolonged more 
 than he had himself anticipated. As long as it 
 lasted he did not cease to correspond actively 
 with his friends, so that he did not leave us, so 
 to speak. We felt that he was with us continu- 
 ously. By following him we at last familiar- 
 ized ourselves with the exotic landscapes that 
 enframed him in our memory. We could see 
 the mangrove roots running into the sluggish 
 waters of the river, the alligators dozing in the 
 mud, the fauna, the flora, the incandescent skies 
 of that equatorial Africa which weighed upon 
 him with its whole heat and immensity. Fur- 
 ther on we suffered from his ennui, from a home- 
 sickness that we felt was more cruel than he 
 avowed, from his longing to feel cold, to see 
 snow, for the trees, flowers and shade of our 
 dear latitudes. 
 
 For my part I received several letters from 
 him, and I remember I wrote him that they 
 cured me of any desire I might have had to 
 make long voyages. Never did I feel more 
 strongly that one must remain in the corner of 
 the world where one is born. Yes, we are sur- 
 rounded with an ensemble of things which be- 
 come a little of ourselves, and away from which 
 
 [105J
 
 io6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 a part of our soul suffers and yearns. The hot 
 light, the gigantic trees, the enormous animals, 
 in brief, all the attractions which the tropics 
 offer to our curiosity are not worth the cloudy 
 skies in which our fancy vaults, the restful 
 shade of our beeches and elms, the perfumed 
 roses of our little gardens, and the domestic cats 
 that purr upon our knees. 
 
 Mme. B would say with a kindly smile: 
 
 " Never let us travel." 
 
 And I shared her sentiments. 
 
 Was it the effect of his letters, which had 
 made it seem as though he had always been 
 with us ? However this may be, his return was 
 almost unnoticed, so little fuss did it occasion. 
 One fine day, when he was to be met again 
 wherever he had been accustomed to go before 
 his departure, it was as though he had never 
 left Paris. Yet a year of absence and fatigue 
 had aged him somewhat. His face, bronzed by 
 the sun of Senegal, was thinner; his beard and 
 hair were whiter, thus accentuating the contrast 
 they formed to his features which remained ob- 
 stinately youthful; moreover his movements 
 were those of a tired man, and there was a cer- 
 tain morbidness of gesture and manner that he 
 had not possessed before. 
 
 " M. Kermoysan has aged very much," people 
 said. 
 
 This was not strictly true, but it expressed in
 
 'A History — Kei^moysan. I07 
 
 a simple phrase the impression he caused to all 
 his friends on seeing him again. 
 
 He had to give an account of his travels; that 
 goes without saying. He did so with perfect 
 good grace, without any indication of displeasure, 
 without apparent lassitude, but without much 
 enthusiasm. When he was led to talk upon the 
 subject he spoke in an almost low voice, without 
 accentuating anything, yet with such art that 
 each of his words had a sense of its own and a 
 thousand coloring details seemed to issue there- 
 from. He was listened to with such interest that 
 
 one day Mme. B , delighted at some very 
 
 picturesque anecdote and suddenly forgetful of 
 her sedentary tastes, exclaimed : 
 
 "Gracious! how happy you must be to live 
 such a life, so grand, so full of variety!" 
 
 He responded coldly: 
 
 " Very happy, in effect." 
 
 And I noticed, or thought T noticed, that at 
 this very moment Mme. Herdevin was following 
 him with a scrutinizing gaze. 
 
 After his return Kermoysan was more cordial 
 towards me. 
 
 " Your letters afforded me much pleasure," 
 he had said, as he shook my hand. " You can 
 have no idea how glad one is to get news of one's 
 friends when one is separated from them by half 
 the earth." 
 
 In the most friendly manner he inquired what 
 I had been doing during his absence, asked
 
 lo8 The Sacrijice of Silence;- 
 
 about my work, my plans, my new tastes, and 
 ni)^ literary opinions almost in the manner of an 
 elder brother. He also begged me to visit him 
 often. 
 
 This I did not fail to do. We lunched several 
 times together, sometimes at a restaurant, some- 
 times in his apartments where honest Adolphe, 
 happy to be in his service again, cooked admira- 
 bly for him. Adolphe's culinary efforts, how- 
 ever, were lost upon Kermoysan. 
 
 " Monsieur is no gourmand," said the old ser- 
 vant to me, in a burst of confidence. *' To-day I 
 am going to serve endive. You will see that he 
 will take it for mere lettuce. When I give him 
 a partridge he never fails to say : ' Adolphe, this 
 chicken is delicious!' " 
 
 This is precisely what did happen. Occa- 
 sionally, when his mistake was too bad, he would 
 feel constrained to excuse himself and would say: 
 
 " I cannot help ir, my poor Adolphe, the 
 kouskous * has spoiled my palate." 
 
 While becoming more frequent, and even 
 more friendly, my relations with Kermoysan did 
 not become much more intimate. We con- 
 versed on general subjects, sometimes about me, 
 never about himself. He remained as eniofmat- 
 ical to me as at the time when I only saw him 
 at a distance, save for the suspicions that had 
 entered my mind during his absence. But these 
 
 * An African stew, highly spiced and pr-ppered.
 
 A History — Ker may salt. TOQ 
 
 suspicions, after all, had only been extremely 
 vague, and now the naturalness and simplicity 
 of his manners eradicated them almost com- 
 pletely. A new incident was to rearouse them. 
 
 " Have you heard the news ?" asked Mme. 
 B one day. 
 
 " What news ?" 
 
 " Oh ! big news about your friend Kermoy- 
 san." 
 
 I replied, thoughtlessly: 
 
 " Is he going to get married ?" 
 
 My old friend burst into a laugh. 
 
 " Always perspicacious !" she exclaimed. 
 " No, he is leaving the Navy." 
 
 She added : 
 
 '* At least, so well-informed persons say. But 
 you must know all about it, you who no longer 
 leave him." 
 
 Kermoysan had as yet said nothing to me 
 about his decision. Two or three days later, 
 however, he confirmed the news, with an air of 
 indifference, as though it were a matter of slight 
 importance. 
 
 " You who were so fond of your profession, of 
 voyages, and foreign lands!" I remarked. 
 
 He paced to and fro in his study, amid the 
 rich stuffs, the bizarre arms, and sumptuous 
 bibelots that reminded him of the distant coun- 
 tries he would see no more. 
 
 *' Yes," he said, " I was fond of them, very
 
 IIO TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 But, what will you ? One becomes 
 
 sedentary, gets old." 
 
 " Not you." 
 
 " I, like everybody else — quicker perhaps. 
 You can see my hair is quite white. Anyhow, 
 the matter is decided. I have written to the 
 ministry. I am no longer an officer, no longer 
 a sailor." 
 
 "I trust you will not regret it!" I remarked 
 imprudently. 
 
 I can see him^ now as he stopped in front of 
 me, his hands thrust in the pockets of his smok- 
 ing jacket, with a thoughtful look in his eyes, as 
 though it were fixed upon something far away, 
 a something that I could not divine. 
 
 " No," he said shaking his head, " I shall not 
 regret it. In the first place one must never re- 
 gret what one has done: it serves no purpose 
 and is a waste of time. And then — then " 
 
 He was weighing his words or hesitated to 
 speak. All at once he made up his mind, in an 
 irresistible need of expansion, speaking with a 
 volubility that was new to me, with free gestic- 
 ulation and in vibrating voice: 
 
 " Well, what will you ? These marching 
 orders, these departures, they break one's life 
 up brutally. One is quiet and comfortable, and 
 well content to remain so: off to Africa! off to 
 
 Tonkin! And it has to be gone through 
 
 over and over again Yellow men, black 
 
 men, a procession of ugly monkeys that make
 
 A History — Kermoysau. 1 1 1 
 
 you doubt your humanity God only 
 
 knows where they would have sent me soon, to 
 
 what seas, among what savages ! I have 
 
 seen too much : I am weary of it, I assure you. 
 (He appeared to be trying to convince himself 
 that this was so.) I need a little stability . . . . 
 Yes, stability .... Go all round the world only 
 to start again when one has finished the journey, 
 no, no. Such a thing is no longer in season 
 
 What do I propose to do ? Why, stop 
 
 in Paris, like everybody else; there is nothing 
 
 very frightful in that I shall write — 
 
 turn out some books I shall not find 
 
 time hang heavily upon my hands, you may be 
 sure. Indeed, no! In the first place I am never 
 bored : ennui, that is only for imbeciles." 
 
 He paused, and concluded with a sharp ges- 
 ture: 
 
 " Besides, it is done. Therefore, let us say no 
 more about it." 
 
 He was suffering visibly. He was not so sure 
 that he was right as he professed to be. This 
 rupture with his career was a tearing away also, 
 a departure, a farewell, as it w^ere. And seeing 
 him so agitated I could not help thinking that 
 the decision did not emanate from himself, but 
 that he must be obeying his solicitude for some 
 dear one, whom he wished at whatever cost to 
 spare tears and anguish. Who knows but what 
 the false report of the loss of the Triton was the 
 Csiuse that impelled him to his decision ? Thea
 
 1 1 2 TJie Saco'ijice of Silence. 
 
 I admired him. What mattered it whether he 
 was right or wrong ? What mattered his career, 
 his future, his taste for travel thus sacrificed ? 
 He at least knew how to love: this was the es- 
 sential thing.
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 The advent of summer dispersed us. Mme. 
 
 B had invited me to visit her at her estate 
 
 in Touraine, and I passed some charming days 
 there in the beautiful country beneath a propi- 
 tious sky. She had also counted upon Kermoy- 
 san. He did not keep his word, and excused 
 himself in a note which in no way resembled his 
 long letters from Senegal. 
 
 " He remembers his friends when he is far 
 away from them," she said, with a shade of 
 melancholy; " when he is near to them, he forgets 
 them." 
 
 We learned from others that he was wander- 
 ing from resort to resort, alone, most unsociably. 
 A letter from Mme. Herdevin, who was in the 
 Pyrenees for the benefit of little Martha's health, 
 apprised us that he had spent a few days at 
 Bagneres-de-Luchon, whence he had visited her, 
 and that he had gone to Biarritz for a longer 
 stay. He did not carry out his plan, for a few 
 days afterwards he was seen at Aix-les- Bains. A 
 little later I met him myself in the usual crush at 
 the railway station of Saint Germain-des-Fosscs. 
 At first, I think, he was not particularly pleased 
 to see a face he knew; but this impression soon 
 disappeared to give place to a very different one, 
 
 [113J
 
 1 1 4 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 and he began to talk freely, like a man who had 
 not heard the sound of his own voice nor that 
 of a friendly voice for some time. 
 
 " Where are you going ?" he demanded. 
 
 " To Royat, where I have some friends." 
 
 " Are they expecting you ?" 
 
 " I did not say when I should arrive." 
 
 " Well, then, come and lunch with me at 
 Vichy, will you ? It will only delay you half a 
 day." 
 
 I accepted, and he seemed pleased. In the 
 train, while looking at the monotonous land- 
 scape, the long horizons with their lines of pop- 
 lars, the slowly flowing, half dried rivers, and 
 the clumps of trees scattered about the fields he 
 explained that he was being treated for his 
 stomach, from which he had been suffering for 
 some time. 
 
 " I am passing a most lamentable summer," 
 he said. " I am bored to death. I am tired of 
 hotels and sick of casinos, yet I drag myself 
 about with no other object than to shift from 
 place to place, like an invalid who turns about 
 in his bed." 
 
 I did not know how to answer him. I entered 
 into his views. I agreed that railways, hotels 
 and casinos were nefarious inventions, and ended 
 by asking whether in the midst of his wander- 
 ings he did not find some distraction in work. 
 
 " But I am not working," he cried with a 
 gesture of discouragement. " I am doing abso-
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. 115 
 
 Ititely nothing. Impossible to write a line. 
 Besides, I haven't an idea, not one. I am com- 
 pletely unoccupied. I have dropped all corres- 
 pondence; I do not even look at a newspaper." 
 
 He said this in a gloomy voice, and with nerv- 
 ous gestures. 
 
 " Why," I suggested, " do you not go to Mme. 
 
 B 's, instead of wandering in this way from 
 
 place to place ? She would be delighted to have 
 vou. She does not expect many visitors now. 
 You would be nice and quiet there, well looked 
 after, and would be able to settle down to work 
 again in one of the prettiest places anybody could 
 wish for." 
 
 He appeared to hesitate a moment. 
 
 " No," he said, replying to his own thoughts 
 rather than to my proposition. " No, decidedly, 
 I am not in the humor for company. I need to 
 feel myself wholly independent. There are 
 times when one is better alone, or among 
 strangers. I am in one of those moods now. I 
 hope my friends will excuse me." 
 
 On arriving at Vichy I accompanied him to 
 the two sources of which he was taking the waters 
 at half-hour intervals. We passed the half-hour 
 meandering mechanically around the band stand, 
 amid the indolent and insipid crowd which was 
 being bored to the music of a popular operetta, 
 the favorite airs of which the violins were saw- 
 ing for the thirtieth time. 
 
 '* You cannot imagine," remarked Kermoysan,
 
 Il6 The Saci'ifice of Silence. 
 
 " to what a degree that music annoys me. And 
 still I come to listen to it twice a day, because I 
 have to be somewhere. Then this coming; and 
 going wearies one a little. One thinks of noth- 
 ing, but the fifteen hours between the rising and 
 setting of the sun pass all the same." 
 
 As soon as he had swallowed his second glass 
 of water we were seated at a table in the inter- 
 national club. He ate sparingly, and made re- 
 marks that varied little and betrayed a state of 
 mind that was singularly highstrung, almost 
 alarming. Never had he shown himself so un- 
 restrained. He evidently thought he was safe 
 from all investigation in this place filled with 
 unknown faces, where he was alone. He prob- 
 ably said to himself; 
 
 " What does it matter if they do notice my 
 trouble ? They cannot guess the cause of it !" 
 
 He spoke to relieve himself. He complained 
 of a thousand insignificant annoyances, for the 
 sheer pleasure of complaining, like a man whose 
 very sources of life are attacked, and who, say- 
 ing nothing about the malady itself deplores only 
 its faintest symptoms. Never did a conversa- 
 tion cause me a more painful impression ; at times 
 I fancied that his reason, beaten by too many 
 storms too long withstood, was giving way. 
 
 As the time for leaving him drew near I asked 
 him what his plans for the end of the season 
 were. He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 *' I have not got any," he said, " I have not
 
 A History — Kcymoysan. i i 7 
 
 got any. What the deuce do you think I can 
 make plans about ? When I have finished my 
 cure, if I do finish it, I shall go a-wandering 
 again, as I have done hitherto. It seems to me 
 that this summer will never end !" 
 
 At the station, to which he accompanied me, 
 he made this last recommendation : 
 
 " If you meet any of our friends don't tell 
 them that I am here!" 
 
 In the crowded compartment of the train 
 which bore me away I had great difficulty in 
 shaking off the impression which his trouble, his 
 agitation, and his strange remarks had caused 
 me. I kept repeating to myself this phrase 
 which I could not get out of my head : 
 
 " Man overboard ! Man overboard !" 
 
 And I pitied him with all my useless sympa- 
 thy.
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 That year I did not return to Paris till to- 
 wards the end of November. My first visit was 
 
 to Mme. B 's where I was sure of hearing 
 
 all the news about our mutual friends. She in- 
 formed me that Kermoysan had been back in 
 town for several weeks; then as I inquired after 
 Mme. Herdevin she became sad. 
 
 " The poor woman," she said, "is threatened 
 with a new sorrow, the worst of all. Her little 
 Martha is worse. It is feared that the end is 
 near — and you know how she loves her!" 
 
 On leaving Mme. B 's I happened to 
 
 run across Herdevin, and stopped him to ask 
 after his child. 
 
 " Still in the same condition," he replied with 
 indifferent shortness, as though not aware how 
 serious that condition was. 
 
 On Mme. Herdevin's day I called at the house, 
 but she was not receiving: Martha's condition 
 was extremely critical. The next day I returned 
 to make inquiries, and learned that the child had 
 died during the night. 
 
 A sort of instinct impelled me to call on Ker- 
 moysan, whom I had not seen for a day or two, 
 not having found him in. I was moved witll 
 [iiSj
 
 A History — Kermoysan, 119 
 
 that emotion at once egotistical and compassion- 
 ate which is easily aroused at contact with death, 
 even when we are not particularly interested in 
 those whom it strikes under our eyes. There- 
 fore, before touching upon any current question 
 I told him the news I had just learned. 
 
 " I heard about it this morning," he said. 
 
 He paused; then seeing that I was waiting 
 for him to continue, went on with effort, evi- 
 dently not saying what he first intended to : 
 
 " She was a delicious child, notwithstanding 
 her infirmities. These little suffering things, 
 yoii know, sometimes have a tenderness and 
 grace that touch us the more because we feel 
 they are so fragile!" 
 
 I knew that Mme. Herdevin allowed few per- 
 sons to approach her child, end Kermoysan's 
 words therefore surprised me. 
 
 " Did you then see her often ?" T asked. 
 
 " Occasionally," he explained. " She suddenly 
 took a liking to me one day when I arrived be- 
 fore the usual hour and they kept her awhile in 
 the drawing-loom. She wanted to see me again. 
 She used to call me the young gentleman with 
 the white hair! I was greatly touched by her 
 sympathy, I assure you. Poor little tot. I shall 
 miss her." 
 
 He paused again. I, ill at ease, and feeling an 
 inexpressible sadness in the air, also remained
 
 120 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 silent. Presently he continued in a deep voice: 
 " What a loss it must be to her poor mother. 
 She loved her so passionately." 
 
 I glanced at him, and was not mistaken : a fur- 
 tive tear was glistening in his eye. Strong men 
 sometimes have these weaknesses: they can re- 
 sist suffering better than pity. 
 
 A few days later I saw Mme. Herdevin. She 
 had now comprised me in the very small number 
 of intimate friends she received, whom I fancy 
 she had chosen among those she deemed capable 
 of really sympathising with her grief. It was a sad 
 moment, for the sight of a deep sorrow evokes the 
 tristful echoes that the daily course of life sup- 
 presses within us, the sentiment of all that men- 
 aces us, the intuition or the terror of sufferings 
 that are lying in wait for us. I had never seen a 
 more sincere, more mortally painful expression 
 of grief. In these few days she had grown years 
 older. Wrinkles had suddenly furrowed her fine 
 brow whose purity no sorrow had previously 
 been able to mar; her complexion had become 
 clouded with a deep, unhealthy tone; her crystal- 
 line voice, that had been so full of charm, had 
 become broken. She was another woman alto- 
 gether. And yet this tragically sorrowful mask 
 was not unfamiliar to me. I had seen it before, 
 in other circumstances. When ? I tried to re- 
 member, and all at once I recalled that it was a 
 few months before, at the time of the false rumor
 
 A History — Kermoysan. \i\ 
 
 of Kermoysan 's death. Only then she controlled 
 herse'f, whereas now, there being no reason why 
 she should hide her grief as a mother, she gave 
 free vent to it, imploring with her eyes a sym- 
 pathy that she knew she would everywhere re- 
 ceive. She was stricken to the heart, but it was 
 with a wound that she could show, that would 
 not be envenomed by calumny. 
 
 This sudden discovery, corroborating at such 
 a moment so many other signs previously ob- 
 served, troubled me to such a degree that I 
 could hardly stammer the few conventional 
 phrases I had come to deliver myself of. How 
 feebly they expressed my compassion! How 
 they rendered in insignificant words a sentiment 
 so strong that it was choking me I I yearned to 
 tell her that I had solved all the mystery of her 
 soul; that I understood her two loves, to one of 
 which it was not permitted to console the other 
 that was bleeding; that I pitied her, pitied her to 
 the point of feeling the very strings of my heart 
 vibrate with sympathy, pitied her so that I suf- 
 fered with her that exquisite pain she could not 
 avow. Instead of this I had perforce to content 
 myself with the utterance of those immutable 
 words which are employed on all such occasions, 
 like the palls that serve at all fiinerals. Yet she 
 must have felt how sincerely I shared her sorrow, 
 for she talked to me at considerable length about 
 the little one that had been taken from her, told
 
 122 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 me how courageous the child had been through 
 all her suffering, and about her winning ways 
 and touching words, in a weak, colorless voice 
 that seemed to pass through sobs. 
 
 " Poor, poor darling!" she said. " I was not 
 able to shield her from a single attack of pain, 
 nor could I give her any of the pleasure that 
 other children enjoy who can walk, and run, and 
 play. How she ought to have been loved to 
 compensate her! I am afraid I did not love her 
 enough, not enough. I had other cares, other 
 thoughts. When she used to ask, ' Mother, what 
 are you thinking about ?' I could not always 
 answer, ' Of you, darling !' But she would hold 
 out her arms to me all the same, her poor, thin 
 little arms that I shall never see again, and 
 throwing them round my neck would say: 
 ' Mamma, I am quite sure that you love me more 
 than anything.' Oh! yes, I loved her more than 
 all else; oh! yes, I know it now!" 
 
 It did her good to talk like that, and I let her 
 go on, finding no words with which to interrupt 
 her. In this way my visit lasted longer than I 
 thought it would. When I rose to take leave of 
 her, Kermoysan entered, and there came into 
 Mme. Herdevin's eyes a gleam of relief, like a 
 half extinct spark of life lighting up again for an 
 instant. They shook hands without a word. I 
 understood that this silence was eloquent; I 
 understood that it contained all suffering and all
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 1 23 
 
 consolation, an infinitiKle of sorrow in which 
 mins^Ied an infinitude of love; I understood that 
 it hid one of those mysteries which the human 
 eye can never fathom, for alas ! who can measure 
 tenderness and kindness that fault obscures ?
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Life goes on, bearing away our sentiments, 
 attenuating our impressions, tolerant to those 
 who suffer, indifferent to spectators. For that 
 matter, unless we are viciously inquisitive, the 
 affairs of other people do not interest us par- 
 ticularly, and we pay little attention to them. 
 Mme. Herdevin having ceased to appear in so- 
 ciety, was soon forgotten. I called upon her from 
 time to time, out of fidelity; but I was forced to 
 admit now that I rarely saw her and she was 
 always in mourning, that she was not so interest- 
 ing to me. Sometimes at Mme. B 's or 
 
 elsewhere she was spoken of in friendly or frivo- 
 lous terms, and regret at her retirement or 
 commiseration for her were expressed : 
 
 " Poor woman ! When will she ever recover 
 from the blow ?" 
 
 •' Ah! We shall never see her again as she 
 used to be." 
 
 And that was all. 
 
 As to Kermoysan, he had also disappeared. 
 Seized with one of his fits of unsociability, he 
 had shut himself up in his entresol in the Rue 
 Oudinot. 
 
 " I am working," he said, in explanation of his 
 seclusion. 
 
 [124]
 
 A History — Ke^'moysart, 125 
 
 This explanation was acce;.ted; there was 
 nothing: extraordinary about it. Nevertheless, I 
 could not help but remark that his disappearance 
 practically coincided with the death of little 
 Martha, that had deprived us of Mme. Herdevin. 
 At first this struck me as being a fine discovery, 
 to be added to those I had already made. Then, 
 as I only saw the hero and heroine of my romance 
 at long intervals I thought little more about them 
 until they were forced upon my attention again 
 under tragical circumstances which raised the 
 last corner of the veil of mystery which still en- 
 veloped them. 
 
 It was in January, w^hen the season was at its 
 height. I was then, like everybody else, living 
 only that empty and factitious life which each 
 night recommences its monotonoi:s round — din- 
 ners, soirees, calls, weariness of the same talk, 
 the same costumes, the same menus, fatigue 
 from staying up too long the previous night, 
 disinclination to work. 
 
 One day the rumor circulated that Mme. 
 Herdevin was ill. At first she was said to be 
 suffering from a slight congestion of the lungs, 
 then it was learned that she had become worse, 
 and vSoon it was said that little hope of saving 
 her was entertained. The very day these re- 
 ports began to get alarming I encountered Ker- 
 moysan at a select little soiree to which Mme, 
 B had invited, him although hardly ex- 
 pecting that he would turn up.
 
 126 TJic Sacrifice, of Silence. 
 
 " So yoii have issued from your seclusion ?" I 
 said as I greeted him. 
 
 "Yes, yes," he replied, "it could not last for 
 ever, you know." 
 
 He did not look well. His face was drawn 
 and there was an anxious look in his eyes. 
 
 "You look tired," I observed. "You have 
 doubtless been working too hard." 
 
 " Working too hard ?" he repeated. " Yes, 
 perhaps so. And then it isn't good to isolate 
 one's self. One has always need of the society 
 of others, more than one thinks — even if only to 
 avoid one's self a little." 
 
 " Have you entirely renounced the savage 
 state ?" 
 
 " Entirely. It is absurd to play the hermit. 
 I shall begin to go out again, as I used to do. 
 My book will be finished all the same, if it ever 
 is to be finished, which I am by no means sure 
 about !" 
 
 Thereafter I met him everywhere, even when 
 making afternoon calls; but he could not re- 
 cover either his equilibrium or that absolute self- 
 possession for which I had admired him when I 
 first made his acquaintance. He would arrive 
 with anxious mien, with the air of a man who is 
 waiting or looking for something. He took little 
 part in the conversation, to which he contributed 
 only in a nervous or absent-minded manner, now 
 returning a wrong answer to a question addressed 
 to him, now coming out with a long tirade, upon
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 127 
 
 which the discussion turned without his con- 
 tinuing to defend his point of view. 
 
 " M. Kermoysan has become very sins^ular," 
 
 remarked Mme. B to me one day. " What 
 
 has come over him ? Do you know ?" 
 
 " I think he has been working too hard." 
 
 My old friend smiled. 
 
 " Working too hard !" she said. " That is a 
 good thing for you literary people. It stretches 
 the nerves and hides everything!" 
 
 It always happened at our gatherings that some 
 one brought Mme. Herdevin's name upon the 
 tapis, for since she had been taken ill she had 
 been remembered again, either because she 
 furnished a subject of conversation, or out of 
 pure kindness and sympathy. Kermoysan never 
 spoke of her, but as soon as he heard her name 
 mentioned he became attentive, and if he was 
 engaged in conversation he was not able to dis- 
 guise the fact that he was not listening to what 
 was being said to him. The news however 
 scarcely varied: the sick woman's condition be- 
 came worse every day, although she fought 
 against her malady with all the strength of her 
 will and years. Apropos to this a medical friend 
 of ours explained that in cases of inflammation 
 and congestion of the lungs one ought never to 
 despair; and that in the course of his career he 
 had often seen sufferers from this complaint 
 recover after they had been given up by the 
 doctors. But he added:
 
 128 The Sacrifice of Silejice. 
 
 " Unfortunately, in her case, the disease is at- 
 tacking a temperament exhausted by great m.oral 
 suffering, by her inconsolable grief at the loss of 
 her child, and it therefore has the best possible 
 ground to work upon." 
 
 None the less everybody was inclined to be 
 confident as to the outcome, especially as there 
 is always time enough to wax sad. 
 
 This lasted about a week. I frequently called 
 at her house for news, but the information I 
 obtained from the servants was not more explicit 
 than that which was circulated in society. Then, 
 one day, at dinner, somebody asked the usual 
 question : 
 
 " Is there any news of poor Mme. Herdevin ?" 
 
 A voice responded: 
 
 " She is dead." 
 
 Kermoysan was seated opposite to me. There 
 was such a gleam in his eyes, he made a gesture 
 of such terror and despair that I shivered to the 
 very marrow. He controlled himself, however; 
 the cry that rose to his lips did not burst forth, 
 and exerting all his energy in a supreme effort, 
 he recovered apparent composure. 
 
 The servants were serving the fish, and all 
 round the table the news of Mme. Herdevin's 
 death had caused an explosion of sympathy. 
 
 " She is dead ! Oh, how sorry I am." 
 
 " Poor woman ! So charming, so good !" 
 
 " Her life was not a very happy one, they 
 say/*
 
 A History— Kcrmoysan. 129 
 
 " Did she suffer much ?" 
 
 These phrases, and others of a similar nature, 
 were exchanged over the orchids that decorated 
 the table, to the cadence of the discreet noise of 
 the forks. The person who had brought the 
 news was asked for details. She had not many 
 to give. All she knew was that the death 
 struggle had been a long one. 
 
 " Was she conscious to the last ?" somebody 
 asked. 
 
 Kermoysan who had appeared to be absent- 
 minded, as though nothing that could be said 
 could interest him became attentive. The per- 
 son interrogated replied : 
 
 " I cannot say. I know nothing more than I 
 have told you/' 
 
 Kermoysan 's neighbor leaned towards him and 
 said 0° 
 
 " You knew poor Mme. Herdevin very well, 
 did you not ?" 
 
 He looked at her and replied with a little hesi- 
 tation I 
 
 *' Very well ? No, madame : I saw her occa- 
 sionally " 
 
 " I never had the pleasure of meeting her," 
 she went on, " but I have always heard her well 
 spoken of„ She was a very charming woman, I 
 understand." 
 
 Kermoysan was livid. 
 
 " Yes, charming, altogether charming," he 
 stammered.
 
 130 The Sacrifice of Silefice. 
 
 I felt the effort these banale phrases cost him, 
 and saw that his strength was giving way. For- 
 tunately the dialogue was interrupted. Another 
 dish had been brought in and wine was being 
 served, the guests being asked to choose between 
 Pomard and Chateau- Laroze. 
 
 It was a lucky diversion. The conversation 
 about Mme. Herdevin dropped, to the great sat- 
 isfaction of the mistress of the house, who was 
 beginning to fear that her dinner party would 
 be a gloomy one. Various subjects were taken 
 up in turn and soon the bon mots of some of 
 wits provoked hilarity. 
 
 Kermoysan conducted himself very well. He 
 was grave, no doubt ; but his impassive face be- 
 trayed no emotion. He spoke little, it is true, 
 but this caused nosuprise, for he was known to 
 be somewhat capricious. He managed to de- 
 liver himself of a few phrases about something 
 or other, however, and thus was almost as atten- 
 tive to his neighbor as politeness demanded. I 
 was, I think, the only person who noticed that 
 he did not eat. He made two or three attempts 
 but the effort was too great, he could not do it. 
 On the other hand he emptied his glasses as 
 quickly as the servants filled them. 
 
 In the smoking room I went up to him intend- 
 ing on no matter what pretext, to say something 
 affectionate to him, but I could not find the 
 words I wanted to say. Besides, he looked at 
 me almqst supplicatingly, with a look that
 
 A History — Kem7toysan, 1 3 1 
 
 seemed to say: " Don't speak to me about it, 
 don't, I entreat you." I therefore merely handed 
 to him the pink candle with which I had just 
 lighted my cigar. He lit his with it and began 
 to smoke mechanically, with rapid puffs. In 
 spite of his silence I remained by him to defend 
 him from the conversation of the others, who 
 were very gay. 
 
 We returned to the drawing-room. There 
 was a reception there, and new guests were ar- 
 riving. Kermoysan had to shake hands with 
 some of them. At one moment he was button- 
 holed by a stout lady who gesticulated with her 
 fan. Then he retreated into a comer. The 
 room became more crowded, and I saw that he 
 was preparing to slip away. Without more re- 
 flection I decided to follow him. 
 
 Being so early in the evening it did not enter 
 his mind that anybody would leave at the same 
 time. He called for his overcoat, got into it rap- 
 idly and went out without noticing that I was 
 following. We w^ere in the Rue Jean Goujon. 
 He passed behind the line of carriages at the 
 edge of the pavement and went off rapidly in 
 the direction of the quays. From the distance 
 at which I kept behind him I could see him 
 gesticulating in the night. Sometimes he would 
 stop, like a man pursued by a tenacious thought 
 that little by little bore him out of the external 
 world and made him forget it. Then he would 
 go on again zigzagging from one pavement to the
 
 132 The Sacrifice of Sileiuc. 
 
 other with the manner of a drunken man. Who 
 has not met such odd passers-by in the street, 
 smiled at their manner and followed them with 
 curious eye ? Sometimes Kermoysan stood still, 
 I think for several minutes. I was compelled to 
 stop, too, and having time to reflect, felt a little 
 ashamed of the sort of spying I was engaged in. 
 To conciliate my conscience I argued that it was 
 my duty to follow him in this way to protect 
 him, or to save him from himself if, as I feared, 
 he took some extreme course. 
 
 The streets, through which the winter wind 
 swept icily, were almost deserted. It was only 
 at long intervals that we met anybody, and they, 
 their faces buried in their coat collars and blow- 
 ing upon their fingers, took no notice of us. 
 
 On reaching the Seine Kermoysan leaned his 
 elbow on the parapet and bent over. Then I 
 was indeed filled with anxiety. Evidently he 
 was thinking of death. Death was beckoning 
 to him, the dark waters were singing to him with 
 the alluring voices of sirens. He was dreaming 
 of the delight of being delivered from the grief 
 which was racking his heart, of being borne by 
 the waves yonder into the unknown, into the 
 mysterious regions where SJie was wandering — 
 waiting for him, perhaps! What was there to 
 hold him back, what could prevent him from 
 plunging into that oblivion from which a httle 
 gray wall alone separated him ? I waited, hid- 
 den behind a tree, ready to rush to the rescue,
 
 A Hisiory — Kennoysan. 133 
 
 impelled by the force of social prejudice, al- 
 though a secret voice whispered: "Let him 
 alone; if he wants to die he is free to do so." 
 And I did not feel the cold, the bitter wintry 
 wind that soughed through the bare branches of 
 the trees and made the reflections of the lamps 
 on the quays dance on the bosom of the tide. 
 
 Suddenly Kermoysan drew himself up, and a 
 thrill passed through me. 
 
 " Now is the time," I thought, as I moved 
 from behind the tree. 
 
 I was mistaken, however, for he walked away 
 from the parapet. Mechanically he pulled his 
 hat over his eyes and continued on his way to- 
 wards the Pont de I'Alma. He walked now with 
 steady step and without stopping, having an end 
 in view. I guessed that he wanted to see the 
 hot:se where she was lying. 
 
 It was a mansion of ornamental architecture 
 separated from the Avenue du Trocadero, on 
 which it faced, by a large wrought iron gate 
 surmounted by a gilded number. Kermoysan 
 stopped in the middle of the avenue oppo- 
 site the gate. He leaned against a tree and 
 fixed his eyes on the closed shutters of the silent 
 apartment. Snow had begun to fall, a heavy 
 snow whose big flakes streaking the obscurity of 
 the night whitened him little by little; but he did 
 not feel them or attempt to shake them off. It 
 •was another form of death that presented itself,
 
 1 34 The Saci'ifice of Silence. 
 
 still more attractive, the kindly pall prepared by 
 nature, the velvet carpet, fallen piece by piece 
 from the sky inviting to unconsciousness. But 
 that was the idea of a calm-minded man, and I 
 am sure never occurred to Kermoysan, When 
 one really suffers death appears as deliverance, 
 not voluptuousness. 
 
 He grew tired of standing still, however, and 
 began to walk up and down in front of the 
 house, sometimes with rapid strides, sometimes 
 more slowly. Now and then he stopped, raised 
 his eyes to a window on the second floor where 
 a gleam of light fitered through the shutters, the 
 room no doubt where they v/ere keeping watch 
 beside the body, and wrung his hands. And sud- 
 denly, I was struck with the frightful thought 
 that he would not have the supreme consolation 
 of seeing her again ; that the terrible tiever had 
 seized upon him in all its horror at a moment 
 when, although it was materially possible to 
 do so, he could not look upon her lying there 
 amid the flowers, and kiss her rigid hands; that 
 the last eyes to gaze upon her would not be those 
 that had adored her, those that her lips had 
 kissed, perhaps, those that were filled with her 
 image, those that had not even the right to weep. 
 And I f3lt a thrill of hatred towards our laws, 
 towards our customs, which proclaim duty more 
 sacred than love. The minutes passed slowly- 
 the snow also fell less fast.
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 135 
 
 " Is he going to stay there all night ?" I won- 
 dered. 
 
 He had obviously ceased to take count of time : 
 he must have been conscious of nothing but his 
 grief. At length, however, instead of turning 
 back he walked straight on at a rapid pace. 
 Without looking at the river he followed the 
 quays to the Pont des Invalides, crossed it, wan- 
 dered through long dark avenues in which I 
 nearly lost sight of him, and finally reached the 
 Rue Oudinot. He walked so quickly that I had 
 difficulty in following him. On arriving at his 
 door he took his key from his pocket, but instead 
 of letting himself in, he made a gesture of de- 
 spair and resumed his indefatigable walk. A new 
 anxiety seized me. Tired as I was I could not 
 possibly leave him. It was no longer curiosity 
 that actuated me, for I knew all that I wanted to 
 know; it was pure pity, the feeling that in his 
 mental grief the poor unhappy, abandoned man 
 had at least one sympathetic soul near him 
 whose compassion would do him good perhaps, 
 even if he knew nothing of it. 
 
 " Heavens ! where is he going, what is he go- 
 ing to do ?" I asked myself. " Has he returned 
 to that idea of death that he dismissed once, but 
 which certainly is lingering in his mind ?" 
 
 This time the streets were utterly deserted, 
 and there were no lights in anv of the houses, I 
 felt very much alone with this desperate man
 
 136 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 who, the snow deadening his footsteps, glided like 
 a phantom through the darkness and silence. 
 
 He did not go far. 
 
 At the corner of the Rue Vaneaii an uninvit- 
 ing wine shop was open, although there was not 
 a single customer in front of the zinc counter. 
 Kermoysan entered. An instant afterwards, on 
 passing by the dirty windows, I saw that he was 
 seated at a little round table with a decanter of 
 liquor before him. I passed by a second time. 
 He was no longer drinking, but his face was 
 buried in his hands and he was sobbing. It was 
 strange and striking, I assure you, this grief 
 which had come to break down in this hole, 
 where nothing about it would ever be known. 
 
 I watched him for a while through the window. 
 The wine shop keeper behind his counter also 
 looked at him, stupefied; then tip-toed to the 
 end of the shop and disappeared through a door, 
 leaving him alone. The man's delicacy touched 
 me. I concluded that Kermoysan's sobs marked 
 the end of the acute crisis, and went away. 
 
 A thousand confused thoxights agitated my 
 mind; a thousand questions presented them- 
 selves that my imagination could alone answer. 
 On reaching home T builded a whole romance. 
 But I realized how fragile it was. One thing 
 alone was certain. Kermoysan was keeping his 
 secret to the end, beyond the tomb. What there 
 was between them none would ever know. It
 
 A History — Kemnoysan. 137 
 
 was now the past, which no longer existed save 
 in one memory with which it would finally be ex- 
 tinguished, of which I had caught a few sparks, 
 that are extinct to-day, and the cinders of which 
 I had no right to stir.
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The next day a vague uneasiness prompted 
 me to call at Kermoysan's house to inquire after 
 him. I did not expect he would receive me, and 
 was therefore not surprised when his man re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Monsieur has gone out." 
 
 But honest Adolphe did not know how to lie 
 to those he knew: he was so embarrassed that 
 no doubt could be left in my mind, and I went 
 away reassured. After the effort of the previous 
 day, which he would have to make again, it was 
 only natural that Kermoysan should shut him- 
 self up with his grief. And I could imagine the 
 grim hours the unhappy man was passing with 
 his regrets, his heart rent by one of those sor- 
 rows that no consoling thought can lull, that no 
 friend can share, I could see him pacing his 
 study with that movement of a chained wild beast 
 one makes instinctively when suffering, wanting 
 to go out and seek the intoxication of walking 
 and of the streets, but afraid to, lest his secret 
 should be read in his face — a wounded and hunted 
 animal which, not being able to drag itself to the 
 stream, crawls into its den to lick its wounds. 
 
 In the evening, however, I met him in society 
 impassible, correct, irreproachable. In a calm 
 [138J
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 139 
 
 voice he expressed his regret at not being home 
 in the morning when I had called, only showing a 
 little too much insistence in explaining where he 
 had gone. He conversed with several other per- 
 sons on different subjects, and defended with 
 animation M. Alexandre Dumas's latest piece, 
 Frandllon, which was being criticised. As on 
 the previous day someone spoke to him about 
 Mme. Herdevin, and asked him once more: 
 
 " You knew her very well, I believe ?" 
 
 " Very well ? No," he immediately replied. " I 
 saw her occasionally with great pleasure." 
 
 He spoke without a twitch in his face or a 
 quiver in his voice. 
 
 " Those w^ho knew her," he added, " all re- 
 gretted that she did not receive more frequently; 
 therefore, although she rarely went out, she will 
 be greatly missed." 
 
 Then with perfect ease he changed the conver- 
 sation. 
 
 It was at the time when Rollinat recited his 
 verses in every drawing room. That night he 
 was in particularly lugubrious mood, for he re- 
 cited the most mournful poems in his repertory. 
 First of all it was " Tears:" 
 
 When wrecked by sad inquietude, 
 
 We trace griefs pathways, lone and sear. 
 
 Or seek the depths of solitude 
 Yet find not one ecstatic tear —
 
 140 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 We envy mothers all their woe, 
 
 Which has the power 10 weep alway, 
 
 Whose bitter tears in torrents flow, 
 And death alone has power to stay. 
 
 Then came a sonnet entitled " The Silence of 
 the Dead," for which the gloomy face of the 
 poet became sombre and tragical: 
 
 We scan their portraits, hoping still to hear 
 One cry to break the silence of the grave. 
 
 Finally, the audience having been suSiciently 
 prepared, his voice became cavernous, his eyes 
 rolled with terror, and he recited " Putrefac- 
 tion:" 
 
 What passes in this frame of clay, 
 
 Which the earth's sweat and ooze shall lave ? 
 What passes in it — who shall say — 
 
 After a half year in the grave ? 
 
 Men assumed the air of free thinkers; the 
 women made grimaces of disgust. Kermoysan, 
 with half-closed eyes, seemed to listen ^vith pro- 
 found attention. But as I passed him at the 
 conclusion of the recitation, he said with a shud- 
 der: 
 
 " It is horrible!" 
 
 Then, checking himself, at once added : 
 
 " What bad poetry!" 
 
 He did not leave until a late hour. 
 
 His attitude had been so natural, so perfect,
 
 A History — Kcrmoysan. 14 1 
 
 that for a moment I asked myself whether I had 
 not dreamed about the incidents of the previous 
 evening. Then I understood that he was guard- 
 ing his secret with that excessive precaution 
 which delicate consciences adopt that are fear- 
 ful to the point of seeing the eyes of judges 
 everywhere around them, with a fear that para- 
 lyzes them even in their most insignificant 
 acts. Poor man ! He did not even dare to shut 
 himself up in his solitude lest his isolation at 
 that particular time should be remarked; and 
 although his heart bled he exhibited himself with 
 dry eyes and serene brow so that none might be 
 prompted to ask: 
 
 *' What has become of Kermoysan ? Why is 
 he not here ?" 
 
 Naturally I attended Mme. Herdevin's funeral. 
 The service was held at the Madeleine with 
 great pomp, as befitted a wealthy person who 
 was bound to keep up appearances to the very 
 threshold of eternity. There were a great many 
 people there, as is always the case at these cere- 
 monies when there is any show about them — 
 relatives, friends, the indifferent, the curious, all 
 wnth the mournful mien suitable to the occasion 
 and copied from that of the mutes. This crowd 
 assumed an indescribable, uniform tint : faces 
 resembled each other as much as the costumes 
 did, so that I had some difficulty in discovering 
 Kermoysan. I perceived him at last, standing 
 a little to one side, and half hidden by a pillar
 
 142 The Sacrifice of Sile7ics. 
 
 against which he was leaning in an attitude sim- 
 ilar to that in which I had seen him two days 
 before, in the snow in the Avenue du Trocadero. 
 All through the service he did not move, indif- 
 ferent to the prayers that the assembly listened 
 to on their knees, his eyes gazing into space, his 
 soul elsewhere. Yet beside the coffin, which he 
 could not approach except for an instant at the 
 conclusion of the ceremony, to which his sole 
 farewell would be the sprinkling of a little holy 
 water, beside this coffin in which slept the beau- 
 tiful one he had not been able to see again, 
 stood the fat Herdevin, with an air of import- 
 ance, very red, blowing hard, holding in his hand 
 a handkerchief that he never thought of using, 
 probably more bored than afflicted, and— who 
 knows ? — well satisfied, perhaps, at an accident 
 that had given him his coveted liberty. 
 
 Again was I assailed with the subversive 
 ideas that had haunted me for two days. 
 Really, how could anyone at an age when one is 
 still susceptible of romantic exaltation witness 
 such a spectacle without cursing the hypocrisy 
 of our institutions, the eternal deceit with which 
 they are enveloped, the obstacles which they 
 have placed in the way of freedom of hearts 
 to the profit of egoism and dryness of soul ? 
 Later in life one reasons otherwise; in those 
 days such were my feelings. It was for this 
 reason perhaps that the events I observed im- 
 pressed me so strongly.
 
 A History — Kermoysan, 143 
 
 When we filed past the bier I preceded 
 Kermoysan. It was I therefore who handed 
 him the aspergium. When he took it from my 
 hand I for the second time remarked that look 
 of despair in his eyes that escaped him like a 
 cry, and which alone betrayed him. He sup- 
 pressed it as one suppresses a sob. But I heard 
 it, so to speak, resounding among the arches and 
 filling them. Then the organs pealed, drowning 
 the mute, lost cry in their deep harmonies. 
 The undertaker's men lowered the pall again 
 and bore out the flower-covered coffin with 
 heavy tread that sounded on the flagstones, 
 while the cortege formed and fell in behind 
 them. 
 
 I stayed beside Kermoysan. He left the 
 church without exerting any will of his own, 
 borne out with the crowd, and stopped on one 
 of the steps, his eye fixed on the beplumed 
 hearse which soon started, causing the cabs to 
 slacken speed, wresting a salute from the 
 passer-by, and then was lost to sight in the 
 calmness of the boulevards, among the omni- 
 buses. 
 
 Kermoysan at last noticed that I was stand- 
 ing beside him. He looked at me, moved his 
 lips although no sound came through them, but 
 managed at last to exclaim in a raucous voice : 
 
 " A funeral is always a sad business." 
 
 I responded with a vague gesture and went 
 away to spare him a fresh effort. He walked
 
 144 ^■^^^ Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 a few steps in the direction the cortege had 
 gone, then stopped, turned back, and started off 
 in the opposite direction, so quickly that he 
 seemed to be fleeing, fleeing from an enemy 
 invisible to others, by whom he felt that he was 
 being pursued.
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 The following days I scarcely went anywhere 
 without encountering Kermoysan. One would 
 have thought he was applying himself conscien- 
 tiously to catching up with visits long in arrears, 
 or that a sort of society fever was driving him 
 from drawing-room to drawing-room. At all 
 events never did a man of leisure perform his 
 social duties with more exactitude. It even 
 seemed to me that he passed all bounds, that in 
 seeking so strenuously to avert suspicion he 
 risked provoking it. However, it would have 
 excited nothing but exceedingly vague suspi- 
 cions. Think what an effort of reasoning it 
 would have necessitated on the part of persons 
 whose attention thereto had not been previously 
 attracted, to have connected Kermoysan's visit- 
 ing with the death of Mme. Herdevin! Society 
 people, when they give themselves the trouble, 
 know how to observe; but their discernment 
 does not attain to the point of divination. His 
 manner struck some of his acquaintances; the 
 change in his habits occasioned some surprise; 
 his more frequent distractions, his sudden lapses 
 into melancholy, the wrinkles with which an 
 ever-present thought lined his forehead and 
 furrowed the corners of his mouth, and which 
 
 [M5J
 
 146 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 gradually changed the formerly serene expres- 
 sion of his visage into one of worry, were re- 
 marked. That was all. I participated in several 
 conversations of which he was the subject : not 
 once did any of the opinions about him come 
 anywhere near being correct. 
 
 " Haven't you noticed," said somebody, " that 
 Kermoysan isn't what he used to be ? He has 
 aged considerably of late; he is becoming 
 wrinkled and absent-minded. What can be the 
 matter with him ?" 
 
 A voice replied: 
 
 " They say he has been working very hard." 
 
 " But," objected another, " he doesn't publish 
 anything now^" 
 
 If there happened to be any spiteful person 
 in the company one would hear: 
 
 " That is. perhaps what is worrying him. He 
 feels that he is used up, and the knowledge 
 W'Cighs upon his mind. Nothing sours a man so 
 much as the disappointments of a literary life." 
 
 It goes without saying that more than once 
 it was insinuated that there was a woman in 
 the case. But nobody knew anything about it, 
 and none suspected that that woman was dead, 
 and that he was mourning for her. I expe- 
 rienced, I must confess, a certain satisfaction, 
 not unmixed with pride, at the fact that I knew 
 more than everybody else; I rejoiced, too, to see 
 that his heroism was not in vain, and that he 
 managed to preserve his secret.
 
 A History — Kermoysan. 147 
 
 This state of things lasted two or three weeks. 
 The remembrance of Mme. Herdevin was being 
 effaced more and more every day. Already 
 society had ceased to talk about her, and when 
 by chance her name cropped up in the course 
 of conversation it seemed to belong to the long 
 ago. Even those who had appreciated her grace 
 and charm and beauty had forgotten her: these 
 qualities pertained to the past, to things dead 
 which by right were claimed by oblivion. The 
 cynical unscrupulousness with which Herdevin 
 showed his mistress in public places, however, 
 could not fail to be remarked. But Herdevin 
 had never frequented the same set as his wife, 
 which therefore did not occupy itself much with 
 him. It was merely observed that he would 
 wed " that creature " in a week or two, and noth- 
 ing more about him was said. 
 
 Kermoysan, however, was going into retire- 
 ment again, and was managing his transitions 
 with a good deal of art. He began by paying 
 fewer visits, remained only a few minutes in the 
 salons where he still put in an appearance, de- 
 clined invitations, and allowed the report to get 
 about that he was at last going to publish a 
 new book. 
 
 When he was questioned about this he would 
 neither confirm nor deny it. 
 
 " You will see that he won't do an57thing of the 
 kind," said the spitefully inclined. " There is 
 too much mystery about it."
 
 148 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 A new book! Indeed, no. It was the last 
 thing he was thinking about. I shall never for- 
 get the only visit that I paid him at that time. I 
 found him in his disordered study, doing nothing, 
 A number of volumes that he had no doubt been 
 trying to read were jumbled pell-mell on the 
 divan, on the easy chairs, on the tables — poets, 
 prose- writers, even pious books. The room had 
 an indescribable air of abandonment and desola- 
 tion. On approaching the large work-table 
 encumbered with papers, uncut periodicals, and 
 unopened letters I noticed that the ink had dried 
 in the crystal inkstand. A gesture of surprise 
 escaped me in spite of myself. Kermoysan, 
 standing beside me, noticed it. 
 
 " Yes," said he, " the ink has dried up. The 
 heat of the coke, you know. Besides, I am not 
 working just now. Don't feel up to it. Haven't 
 any ideas." 
 
 Affecting a careless tone he continued: 
 
 *' One experiences such moments, you know 
 yourself. They are common to me. Only this 
 time, my lazy spell is lasting longer than usual. 
 It's a beastly nuisance. I can't get on with my 
 book, and it's going to be a good one." 
 
 And with a great effort he began to talk to 
 me about the book, although his thoughts were 
 not upon it. 
 
 " I did more work when I was a sailor," he 
 •yvent on. " I miss my voyages. To change
 
 A History — Kcnnoysan. 149 
 
 from place to place, to move about, to be stirring, 
 there's nothing like it, believe me," 
 
 He had made me sit down, although he did 
 not sit himself, and while talking to me he paced 
 up and down with that manner of a caged will 
 animal that I knew so well, and that internal 
 agitation that impels to movement. 
 
 When I left, Adolphe showed me out. I was 
 almost as much struck by him as by his master, 
 whose dispositions he always reflected a little. 
 He was unshaven, his apron was dirty, and he 
 was visibly letting things go their own way. 
 
 " I am afraid Monsieur is not very well just 
 now," I remarked. 
 
 The honest fellow shook his head, rolled his 
 eyes, and began: 
 
 " Ah ! Monsieur " 
 
 But he stopped short discreetly. 
 
 I did not return to the Rue Oudinot for fear 
 of disturbing this grief to which solitude was so 
 favorable. There are sorrows that cannot be 
 consoled, save by time, and time is long to the 
 suffering. To me, who was not suffering, it 
 passed quickly enough. Perhaps I had forgotten 
 Kermoysan a little. I however thought about 
 him sometimes. I imagined that he had retired 
 from the world, was immured, so to speak, in his 
 garfon7iih-e, separated from the world by an in- 
 visible barrier, by the insurmountable wall of 
 his regrets, when a rumor was circulated that he 
 was going to the Soudan.
 
 150 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 It was true. 
 
 " But what did he want to leave the service 
 for, if he cannot keep still ?" his friends de- 
 manded. 
 
 And his inconsequent action was adversely 
 commented upon. 
 
 A few days before his departure Kermoysan 
 came to bid me fare\Yell. He was greatly 
 changed. He had grown thin, and weaker. 
 There was an air of sadder distraction about 
 him. The look in his eyes was farther away than 
 ever. In all his movements and gestures was 
 that continual and threatening uneasiness that I 
 had noticed when I last visited him. I can see 
 him still as he sat in my only easy chair, his 
 mobile eyes wandering upon all the objects in the 
 room as though he were making an inventory 
 of them, while he moved his feet about restlessly 
 and crossed his hands incessantly. 
 
 We were both somewhat embarrassed, having 
 thoughts which we could not or would not 
 express. For my part I heard other words than 
 those he uttered in an indifferent voice. I 
 asked him a few questions about the object and 
 equipment of the expedition to which he had 
 had himself attached. Queer sounding names 
 fell from his lips — Ouargla, Chambaa, Tidikelt. 
 One might have thought from his manner that 
 he did not hear them. He told me briefly about 
 some of the heroic but vain attempts made to
 
 A History — Kennoysan. 151 
 
 penetrate the unexplored regions to which he 
 was bound. 
 
 " It is a task of wild temerity that you have 
 undertaken," I observed. 
 
 " Wild ? No," he replied. " It may be a bold 
 one, but not more so than many others which 
 have been successfully accomplished. Besides, 
 why should I hesitate ? I have no family, I am 
 not bound to anyone, I am utterly alone in the 
 world, absolutely independent. What does it 
 matter, then, if I do leave my skin there ?" 
 
 " What about your friends, and your literary 
 career ?" 
 
 He smiled. 
 
 " My friends," he said gently, " have other 
 friends. As to literature, I fancy it will get on 
 very well without me. I have not even thought 
 about it. Besides, I am no longer doing any- 
 thing; lam not writing anymore; it does not 
 afford enough distraction. Action, action, move- 
 ment, danger — that is what I need!" 
 
 His eyes brightened : 
 
 " Danger!" he repeated. " That spells pleas- 
 ure — the last that gives a little value to life. 
 One clings to life when one is on the point of 
 losing it. . . . And then, what will you ? I need 
 
 to be up and doing If I return I 
 
 shall at least have done something. If I do not 
 
 return Why should one not sleep as 
 
 well beneath the sands of Africa as under our 
 dark earth ?"
 
 152 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 He rose with these words and held out his 
 hand. I looked him straight in the face. 
 
 " I am afraid," I said, emphasizing my words, 
 " I am afraid you won't come back." 
 
 Embarrassed by my look he turned away his 
 eyes. 
 
 " One cannot tell," he said carelessly. " May- 
 be I shall, maybe I shall not For my 
 
 part I fancy I shall return. You see my soul is 
 rivetted to my body; it will leave it only when 
 it cannot help itself." 
 
 Then, seeing that I was upset, he imparted 
 an unexpected cordiality to his hand clasp. His 
 last words, which I shall never forget, were 
 these : 
 
 " Adieu I wish you the best of luck 
 
 through life!" 
 
 Alas! I knew that I should never see him 
 again. 
 
 For several months no particular news of him 
 was received ; one could only follow his move- 
 ments by uncertain information received at long 
 intervals about the expedition which was push- 
 ing with him into that unknown land along the 
 course of some vast river. Then one day it was 
 announced that while reconnoitring alone, he 
 had perished after a heroic defence. It certainly 
 was not a case of suicide; and yet
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Such are the facts which I recalled slowly in 
 the course of the conversation I recounted at 
 the outset. I had ceased to ta'ce part in it, or 
 even to listen to it, being borne away by the cur- 
 rent of my recollections which were being grad- 
 ually resuscitated in my memory. I sought to 
 define their uncertain contours while I gave 
 myself up to a few vague reflections. 
 
 " Alas!" thought I, " we know nothing about 
 others. We see them come and go, move about, 
 suffer, love, and die, and our unpractised eye is 
 unable to pierce the hard crust of appearances, 
 to penetrate deeper into the regions of the soul, 
 those in which live the real being, eternally un- 
 known to us, impenetrable, inaccessible. Their 
 thoughts are manifested to us by words which 
 we think we understand, and we are never sure 
 that we have grasped their right sense. As to 
 their acts, ah! their acts, it is worse still; they 
 deceive us more than their words! We judge 
 them, we classify them, define them. We say: 
 These are good, those are bad; these are just, 
 those are unjust; these are admirable, those are 
 without excuse. And our judgments are nearly 
 always as many iniquitous errors; for they are 
 
 .[153]
 
 154 The Sacri^ce of Sile^ice. 
 
 based upon the crude categories which our crude 
 analysis of acts has formed. 
 
 " Acts, what do they matter ? They are only 
 signs, more uncertain than words, and we know 
 not how to interpret them. It is acts alone that 
 we see, yet sentiments alone count, sentiments 
 which escape us, for they are enveloped in mys- 
 tery, and are of such diversity ! 
 
 " Alas ! who, then, in these delicate things of 
 the heart, who will draw the exact line between 
 the limits of good and evil ? Who will say when 
 love, forbidden by human laws, is also forbidden 
 by those superior laws of which we sometimes 
 feel the divine indulgence ? Who will say when 
 the fault is expiated or even, perhaps, changed 
 in its very essence by suffering ? For, after all, 
 the power to love above all things, of a heart ex- 
 panded that breaks the chains of prejudice, of a 
 soul that rises superior to social shackles, is this 
 not a virtue ? Is there not a heroism superior 
 to the cold observance of rules, to the common- 
 place obedience to laws ? 
 
 " Poor silent ones! How many are the tears 
 of which you have kept within yourselves all the 
 bitterness! The wotmded man who lies upon 
 the blood-stained ground and awaits death with- 
 out giving utterance to use-ess cries is admired; 
 you v/ho dissemble your anguish under irre- 
 proachable masks, you who know how to come, 
 to go, to chat, to smile while your heart is break-
 
 A History — Ke7'7noysan. 155 
 
 ing-, are you then but miserable liars to be dis- 
 dained ? No, no, you also are heroes." 
 
 I thought a good many other things, too. But 
 why transcribe them here ? 
 
 Although they may be but acts, acts have their 
 eloquence. Those that I have described, if I 
 have succeeded in describing them, should con- 
 vey their meaning, and if there be a judge, plead 
 before him the cause of two lovers who doubtless 
 suffered more than they sinned.
 
 PART III. 
 
 ANOTHER CONVERSATION. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Albert Portal, the well-known painter, had in- 
 vited Jacques D and myself to visit his 
 
 studio and inspect his latest canvas, which was 
 
 about to be sent to America. Jacques D is 
 
 my oldest comrade in letters; but there exists 
 between us a tie much stronger than that of our 
 profession: a solid friendship, based upon es- 
 teem, common efforts, reciprocal aid rendered in 
 the hour of trial, sympathy, and similarity of 
 tastes. Upon subjects anent which agreement 
 is indispensable if intimacy is to be fostered our 
 opinions are nearly always in accord ° in the af- 
 fairs of life I admire his uprightness, his sound 
 judgment, his energy, which detract in nowise 
 from a sensibility at once ardent and gentle, a 
 delicacy truly feminine. Those who know him 
 only by what he has written can have no concep- 
 tion of what he is, for he has always devoted him- 
 self to works of erudition, somewhat dry, exact, 
 minute, impersonal, in which he disappears as 
 [156]
 
 Anothei' Co7iversation. 157 
 
 though fearful lest the literature of imagination^ 
 for which he is so marvellously gifted, should de- 
 velop within him certain virtualities, certain 
 germs, which he suppresses because he regards 
 them as dangerous. As to Portal, eulogy of 
 whom as an artist would be superfluous, he is 
 above all a society man, in great request in ele- 
 gant circles, a trifle snobbish, an habituj of sev- 
 eral clubs and an excellent sportsman. Which 
 is to say that our relations are rather casual 
 than otherwise. 
 
 We had paid our tribute of praise to his pic- 
 ture, as well as to some fine studies that he 
 showed us, and reclining on an Oriental divan 
 beside a decanter of sherry were smoking choice 
 cigarettes. Little by little, our chat, which was 
 upon art matters, changed its direction; we be- 
 gan to talk about various persons of promi- 
 nence with who:e anecdotal history Portal was 
 thoroughly familiar, and finally allusion was 
 made to a recent scandal — the sensational rup- 
 ture of a liaison between a married man and a 
 woman moving in the best society, which had 
 long been known to everybody. Portal re- 
 counted to us all the details of the aff"air with 
 such minuteness that one might have thought he 
 had played some rCle in it himself. Reclining 
 there with half closed eyes and sending spirals 
 of smoke towards the canopy of embroidered 
 stuffs above the divan, he seemed to be enjoying 
 his own story and the attention with which we
 
 158 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 listened to it. In fact he stirred up these sad 
 things seemingly without being so much as 
 touched by the shadow of them, in the tone in 
 which he would have explained the ins and outs 
 of a horse-race, or the hazards of a match. When 
 he had nothing further to relate, he passed judg- 
 ment: 
 
 " You see that, on the whole, it passed off more 
 correctly than might have been supposed from 
 all the noise that was made about it." 
 
 We made no reply, and he added: 
 
 " Once an intrigue has been discovered it has 
 got to stop, has it not ?" 
 
 I was weak enough to murmur: 
 
 " Of course. That is always what happens." 
 
 Jacques D glanced at me reproachfully 
 
 and asked: 
 
 " But, after all, have these rumors that are 
 
 circulating about Mme. X any foundation 
 
 on fact ? Is it true that she " 
 
 He paused for a moment; then went od- 
 
 " That she is seriously ill ?" 
 
 " Insane, you mean insane," rectified Portal. 
 " But, pshaw ! I believe the report is exaggerated. 
 Those best informed say that her mind is a little 
 unbalanced, but that she will get over it all 
 right. However this may be she has certainly 
 taken the matter too tragically." 
 
 " And her lover ?" I inquired. 
 
 " Oh !" said Portal with a significant gesture, 
 " he won't lose his head for that, I will guarantee.
 
 Another Conversatio7i. 159 
 
 He was awfully annoyed, of course, awfully an- 
 noyed These kind of adventures are 
 
 always disagreeable But what could he 
 
 do ? A woman who is imfaithful to her husband 
 is perfectly aware of the risk she is running: she 
 has got to see to it that she isn't found out. 
 Now this woman from the very first has been 
 imprudent !" 
 
 " Doubtless because she really loves," said I, 
 
 " That's where she made a mistake," declared 
 Portal triumphantly. " One should never really 
 fall in love, because then one doesn't know what 
 one is doing!" 
 
 Jacques D who had been fidgetting at 
 
 Portal's remarks could contain himself no longer. 
 
 " Do you know what especially strikes me in 
 histories of this sort ?" he cried. " Well, it is 
 the roguishness of soul and the platitude of 
 heart that they reveal — in the case of the man, I 
 mean, of course. This woman has suffered; I 
 can excuse her. But her lover is a brute." 
 
 Portal opened his eyes in astonishment. 
 
 " And why, pray ?" he demanded. 
 
 My worthy friend continued, excited by his 
 passion for moralizing: 
 
 " Let us leave out of the question the anecdote 
 yoii have just recounted, dear monsieur. It is 
 no more nor less significant than many others. 
 Let us see what happens in nine-tenths of such 
 cases; for these stories of adultery are all 
 alike "
 
 i6o TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 ^' " For the lookers on, not for the principals," 
 observed Portal banteringly. 
 
 Jacques, ignoring the interruption, continued: 
 
 " A man and woman, separated by circum- 
 stances, by duty — by life, in a word — fall in love 
 with each other. Admitting that they be of 
 average virtue, they do not surrender at the 
 first cry of their desire, they fight against it, 
 they resist." 
 
 " More or less," again interrupted Portal. 
 
 " More or less, so be it!" repeated D . 
 
 " A little, all the same — unless falling in love is 
 habitual to them, in which case they cease to 
 interest me. Therefore, they resist for a time. 
 Then they succumb, because their passion is 
 the stronger, because none has ever loved as 
 they love, because — in short, for many good 
 reasons. Well and good. However strong may 
 be their passion they find means to conciliate 
 it with the exigencies of their life, which is regu- 
 lar in appearance, and to which they are loath 
 to sacrifice it. Oh! no; they enjoy love's bliss 
 incosfnito for a certain number of weeks, or 
 months, 'or years " 
 
 That insupportable Portal again interrupted 
 him. 
 
 " Oh ! years !" he exclaimed sceptically. 
 
 " The length of time it lasts has nothing to 
 do with the matter," said Jacques with a gesture 
 of impatience. " At first they regard them- 
 selves as victims of social order, which is unjust
 
 Another Conversation. i6i 
 
 and tyrannical; that is understood. They seek 
 excuses, and find them. Then the time comes 
 when they no longer need them. They prac- 
 tice lying, deceit and hypocrisy in all security. 
 Then it is that the trouble begins. Some in- 
 cident occurs — a letter mislaid, a lie found out, 
 an imprudently arranged rendezvous. Their 
 relations are discovered. You imagine that a 
 drama will follow ? Not at all. There are a 
 few comedy scenes, nothing more. Explana- 
 tions are in order. The deceived husband or 
 wife demands his or her rights, makes a fuss, 
 threatens. The courts, divorce, scandal, loom 
 upon the horizon. But at this moment the 
 lovers discover that marriage is sacred; that 
 the one or the other has children whose fu- 
 ture must not be compromised; that the ties 
 that bind them to their respective life partners 
 are more solid than they imagined; that the 
 family stew is more wholesome and more indis- 
 pensable, if not more succulent, food than game 
 that is high — and they separate. Good day, 
 good night; it's all over, say nothing more about 
 it." 
 
 " That is true," said Portal. " That is pre- 
 cisely the way these affairs usually go. Besides, 
 is it not the best denouement they can have?" 
 
 " Well," continued Jacques, '' I am simple 
 enough to consider it utterly miserable ! Yes, I 
 imagine that when one has loved enough to for- 
 get one's duty — permit me to employ this old
 
 1 62 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 out-of-date word — one ought to accept all the 
 consequences of that forgetfulness. Furthermore, 
 I imagine that if love has lost its early freshness 
 and empire, one ought to sacrifice the rest to it 
 out of pure dignity and self respect." 
 
 This time Portal could not help laughing. 
 
 " But, my dear fellow," he cried, " where do 
 you come from ? This is no longer the epoch 
 of romanticism. And then, what morality! 
 Come, now, what would become of society if 
 everybody thought as you do ? It would have 
 to be shaken to its bases at the first infringe- 
 ment of a marriage contract." 
 
 " So much the worse for society!" replied 
 Jacques. " Society manages to get along some- 
 how, no matter what happens. Besides, the in- 
 dividual interests me much more than society 
 does. I like to see him develop nobly, unre- 
 strained by convention and prejudice. Either 
 love is a crime, in which case we must not love, 
 or it is the most beautiful thing in life, and has 
 a right to the necessary sacrifices." 
 
 Portal raised his arms. 
 
 " Heavens! what logic!" he exclaimed, *' I did 
 not know you in this light, vion cher ! You are a 
 nihilist, an anarchist, a most dangerous man! 
 For my part, I look at things more simply. I 
 think it is a good thing to take and leave each 
 other with facility, and I think it is most fortu- 
 nate that the immense majority of our con- 
 temporaries hold the same view that I do. What
 
 Another Conversation. i6 
 
 J 
 
 do I say, the majority ? The totality, mon cher, 
 the totality. I could relate ten, fifteen, twenty 
 such histories as the one I recounted just now. 
 It would be difficult for you to cite a single case 
 which ended in a way after your own heart — 
 unless, perhaps, you looked for it in the Gazette 
 des Tribunauxy 
 
 Jacques D shook his heado 
 
 " That is so," said he, " and I regret it for the 
 men of our time. And yet " 
 
 He paused, reflected a moment, and then 
 went on: 
 
 " And yet, if you like, I can relate a case which 
 differs a little from them. Although more rare 
 it has I think as much meaning. It will demon- 
 strate to you, if you will take the trouble to listen 
 to it, that the contemporary soul is still suscepti- 
 ble of some exaltation. Perhaps we brush up 
 against many like it, but we don't know it, or 
 else we forget them because they are of those 
 that develop only in silence. It was by mere 
 chance that this one was revealed to me. Would 
 you like to hear it ?" 
 
 " Certainly," said Portal, as he off ered us some 
 fresh cigarettes, " Go ahead." 
 
 Jacques D then recounted what follows, 
 
 as far as I have been able to reconstitute it.
 
 PART IV. 
 
 ANOTHER STORY. 
 TO THE END OF THE FAULT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 PRELUDE. 
 
 During the summer of i88 — , I passed several 
 weeks at Weimar. I was then occupying my- 
 self with Goethe, and wanted to consult certain 
 documents that I could not have found elsewhere, 
 and, even more, to live in the atmosphere in 
 which the great man had lived : it seemed to me 
 that in this way I should be able to get nearer to 
 the secrets of his heart or those of his mind. 
 The results of this experiment was that in a very 
 short time Host a good many illusions about him 
 that I had entertained. Still, there remained 
 one. I admired the manner in which this man, 
 who was in every respect one of the precursors 
 of the nineteenth century, remained in the 
 eighteenth century as regards all that is of the 
 conception and arrangement of life. To the 
 end, although he had written Werther and read 
 [164]
 
 To the End of the Fault. 165 
 
 Reni^ he pertained to that fine epoch which knew 
 so well how to savor existence. Few men have 
 had a more robust inclination to be happy; thus, 
 Weimar belonging to him, he remade, arranged, 
 and disposed his little residence with marvel- 
 ous ability, with a view to comfort, pleasure and 
 enjoyment. It bears as its stamp, and all that 
 one sees — the house, the park, the theatre — 
 arouses, the idea of an easy, harmonious and 
 sweet existence. Everything, even to that queer 
 little River Ilm, which rolls its brown waters in 
 the deep shade of the fine old trees, seems to 
 sing of gaiety. 
 
 This clever arrangement, this artificial char- 
 acter of the little town displeased me. Too 
 many storms have passed over the world for us 
 to be able to taste of much of the great egotist's 
 "Olympianism," and I was irritated that it should 
 be exhibited everywhere in calm unconcern, as 
 though we were still in the good old rococo times 
 of Charles Augustus, the Duchess Mother, and 
 Frau von Stein. The personages of Goerhenian 
 history, whose portraits followed me everywhere, 
 inspired me with antipathy, as did the hero him- 
 self. I bore a grudge against them for having 
 been too happy. I would very gladly have left 
 them now and then to go and lounge aimlessly 
 in the Thuringian forests, had I not been anxious 
 to finish the work which detained me at Wei- 
 mar. 
 
 I had installed myself at the Crown Prince
 
 1 66 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 Hotel, at the corner of the market-place, the 
 part of the town that was the least dull. It is an 
 immense, patriarchal house, where one is de- 
 cently lodged and the food is pretty good. But 
 the meals, which were too long and too copious, 
 seemed dreary in the vast dining-room orna- 
 mented with plaster busts of the founders of the 
 empire, little busts of Goethe and Schiller, as in- 
 evitable as destiny, and a few other busts, also 
 in plaster, of the most popular among the sov- 
 ereij:ns of the country. There was a procession 
 of tourists armed with their Bcedeker^ who re- 
 mained a day or two, visited the places of interest 
 in the town, and disappeared. Apart from a 
 few insignificant sentences exchanged here and 
 there with chance companions, I was reduced to 
 my own society, for which I have never had any 
 particular predilection. 
 
 After ten days of this monotonous existence, 
 the solitude was beginning to pall upon me when 
 I struck up an acquaintance with a young Ger- 
 man professor. Dr. Christian Hort, whom I met 
 constantly at the Goethe Museum. We began 
 by an exchange of reflections before one of the 
 innumerable portraits of Christiane. I ventured 
 the observation that with her bright air, her fine 
 sensuous lips, her large candid eyes, and the 
 good h7imor of her fat face, Goethe's lawful wife 
 was, in point of fact, the most sympathetic in the 
 gallery of women he had loved. Dr. Hort was 
 not of my way of thinking. He had a weakness
 
 To the End of tJie Faiilt. 167 
 
 for Betty, whose roguish look and saucy air 
 pleased him. Question of taste ! However, this 
 discussion served as a point of departure for 
 others. As the halls of the Goethe Museum, 
 with the non-commissioned officers guarding it, 
 and the respectful silence that filled it were not 
 particularly favorable to our conversations, we 
 ended by continuing them in the park. One day 
 as we passed, while chatting, in front of one of 
 the compact little villas surrounded with trees 
 that skirt it, a couple issued who at once attracted 
 my attention. The woman, very tall and slen- 
 der, was of an elegance altogether unlooked for 
 in Weimar, and that enhanced still more the 
 nobleness of her manner and the harmony of 
 her movements. She wore a thick veil that pre- 
 vented me from seeing her face. The man was 
 remarkably handsome, with regular and clear- 
 cut features, a dark complexion set o£E by a very 
 black moustache, and an air of easy assurance. 
 They went without looking at anj^hing, haught- 
 ily indifferent to the chance scenery in which 
 they were enframed, absorbed, both of them, by 
 something invisible that was passing within them, 
 I gazed after them, and my companion said: 
 
 " They are French." 
 
 " You don't say so ?" I eKclaimed, astonished 
 to find French people residing in a little German 
 villa. 
 
 " Yes," went on Dr. Hort, " they are French.
 
 1 68 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 They have been here nearly two years, so I have 
 been told." 
 
 " What are they doing here ?" 
 
 " Nobody knows. They rarely go out. The 
 woman is always veiled like she is to-day. I 
 have met her nearly a dozen times, but I have 
 never seen her features. Moreover they know 
 nobody, see nobody, and speak to nobody." 
 
 " There is a mystery about them, then !" 
 
 " Nobody knows anything about them except 
 their name, and nobody is sure that even that is 
 authentic." 
 
 " What do they call themselves ?" 
 
 " De Sourbelles." 
 
 I had to get him to repeat the name two or 
 three times, he pronounced it so queerly. 
 
 " De Sourbelles," I murmured, " it sounds 
 familiar to me." 
 
 I must have heard the name somewhere but 
 I could not recall where. 
 
 " They do say that there is a drama in their 
 past," continued Dr. Hort, " but no one knows 
 just what it is. Some assert that they are not 
 married ; others that they came here after a great 
 scandal. They have excited a good deal of in- 
 terest in the town, but as their servants won't 
 talk people are reduced to conjectures." 
 
 The really strong impression the unknown 
 couple had made upon me during the glimpse I 
 got of them excited my curiosity even more than 
 this incomplete information about them. I
 
 To the End of the Fault. 169 
 
 therefore returned and strolled about in the 
 neighborhood of the villa. In vain: with its 
 half-closed grey shutters, its brick-colored walls, 
 the trees that hid it, the creeper that climbed to 
 the balconies, and the silence that surrounded 
 it, the place appeared more and more mysterious 
 to me. As to its inmates, I saw nothing more 
 of them: no external sign gave evidence of their 
 existence. On two or three occasions the white- 
 capped head of a servant appeared at a window 
 as she quickly opened or closed the shutters. 
 That was all. Now and then. Dr. Hort, who 
 knew all the gossip that went on in the town 
 told me something of their doings, but this in- 
 formation was not very conclusive. It was never 
 anything more important than the fact that they 
 had made a purchase in one of the shops or had 
 made a trip to Eisenach or Coburg, or had been 
 seen at the theatre in the rear of a box. The 
 less my companion managed to find out about 
 the mysterious strangers, the more he occupied 
 himself about them. 
 
 " I shall soon have to go away," he said, " and 
 I shall know nothing about these people !'* 
 
 He added melancholily : 
 
 " How is it that it is easier to get information 
 about the dead than about the living ? I know 
 Frau von Stein as well as if I saw her every day. 
 I know the exact shade of her hair, the hours at 
 which she was accustomed to take her meals, 
 what she thought about everything, how she was
 
 1 70 The Sacmfice of Silence. 
 
 dressed, etc., etc. And I have never been able 
 to get a glimpse of the tip of Mme. de Sour- 
 belles' nose!" 
 
 " It is for that reason that it is better to write 
 history than romance," said I. 
 
 One day, as I entered the dining room of my 
 hotel, I was surprised to see, next to my accus- 
 tomed place, the delicate profile of M. de Sour- 
 belles. He had just finished his soup, and ap- 
 peared to be contemplating with extreme atten- 
 tion the bust of the reigning duke that happened 
 to be opposite to him. I spoke to him in French. 
 He looked at me in astonishment and responded, 
 but did not allow the conversation to keep up. 
 Thinking that he was determined to keep to 
 himself I did not persist, and the meal went on 
 in silence. On rising from the table we ex- 
 changed a slight salute. 
 
 The next day, contrary to all expectation, he 
 was there again and it was he who broke the ice. 
 He began to talk, and he talked a good deal, like 
 a man who for a long time had not spoken in his 
 native tongue, who rejoiced at the sound of his 
 own voice, and had suddenly taken a dispropor- 
 tionate interest in a thousand different things. 
 I soon saw that he was intelligent, of literary 
 tastes, of open mind and excellent education, 
 and that he possessed original and unexpected 
 points of view that he liked to expose. But he 
 spoke only of things, never of himself. After 
 a few dinners partaken of side by side, after a
 
 To the End of the Fault. 1 7 T 
 
 few strolls together that he proposed, after two 
 or three evenings spent in one of the concert 
 gardens, where one can kill time without too 
 much difficulty, thanks to the beer and cigars, 
 while a military band plays Wagner's overtures, 
 we had touched upon about all the subjects which 
 cultivated persons like to discuss. I was ac- 
 quainted with the political and religious opinions 
 of my chance companion, his literary leanings, 
 his artistic preferences, his views on the new 
 Germany, the Emperor, the Reichstag and the 
 socialists : but I did not know what he was doing 
 at Weimar, nor whence he came — in short, I knew 
 absolutely nothing about him. Not a word had 
 he uttered that could serve as an indication, or 
 help me to frame any supposition. But once, 
 when I complained of the artificial aspect of 
 Weimar, he let slip the exclamation: 
 
 " Yes, it is a tiresome and monotonous town." 
 
 He divined, no doubt, the indiscreet question 
 I was keeping back : " If it bores you so, why 
 do you stay here ?" for after some hesitation he 
 added : 
 
 " But, what will you ? It is after all better 
 than a good many other German towns. . . , 
 It is not too Prussian. . . . And one is pretty 
 sure of not meeting any fellow countrymen one 
 knows." 
 
 This last sentence struck my imagination, 
 which began to work upon this scarcely sketched 
 theme: I said to myself that M. de Sour-
 
 172 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 belles had no doubt come to Weimar to be 
 really alone, out of the way of the bores one 
 finds at all the fashionable resorts, and that there 
 were reasons for this course that I probably 
 should never know. On the other hand my 
 curiosity diminished in proportion as the sym- 
 pathy with which he inspired me increased. In 
 the end I should have resigned myself to accept- 
 ing him as I found him, with his delicate mind 
 tinged with melancholv, and his keen intelli- 
 gence that was somewhat inclined to be para- 
 doxical, congratulating myself on having met 
 him and bothering no more about his past than 
 that of Dr. Hort or of anybody else, when, one 
 
 day, after the coffee we had been taking together, 
 
 he said brusquely : 
 
 " I have to inform you, monsieur, that we 
 
 meet to-day for the last time." 
 
 " What !" I exclaimed. " Are you then going 
 
 away ?" 
 
 He turned his eyes away and replied in a tone 
 
 which he sought to render indifferent: 
 
 " No, I am not going away. . . . Mme. 
 
 de Sourbelles was absent; she returns to-night 
 I came to the Crown Prince Hotel 
 
 because I was so lonely. Now it is all over; I 
 
 shall return to my villa and resume my usual 
 
 life." 
 
 I had a good mind to ask him why his wife's 
 
 return necessitated the complete interruption of
 
 To the End of the Faidt. 173 
 
 our relations; but I suppressed the question 
 which surprise had almost drawn from me. 
 
 I awaited a word of explanation. None was 
 forthcoming. I felt a little hurt, I admit, es- 
 pecially as I had put myself out to make myself 
 agreeable to him, and resolved to leave him 
 coldly; but there was such cordiality in what he 
 said afterwards, such sympathy, such evident 
 regret in the .grasp of his hand, that it was im- 
 possible for me to conceal the fact that I re- 
 gretted to lose him, so that our farewell was 
 positively friendly. 
 
 " This is very singular," thought I, " more 
 singular than all the rest I He appeared to take 
 pleasure in my company, we are foreigners, 
 both of us, and compatriots at that, lost in a 
 town that has little attraction for us, among 
 these Goethrolatriates whose fetishism irritates 
 us ; what is there then to prevent him from in- 
 viting me to call upon him or, at the very least, 
 to look me up occasionally at the hotel ?" 
 
 As I still had a few days to pass at Weimar I 
 fell back upon Dr. Hort, whom I had somewhat 
 neglected, but who did not appear to mind. 
 
 The worthy savant continued to frequent the 
 Goethe Museum, but his tastes had undergone 
 some modification. He had grown tired of 
 Betty's pretty, irregular featured face, and had 
 taken a fancy to the dishevelled Maximihane, 
 upon Vv'hom he discanted with much exuber- 
 ance.
 
 r 74 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 " You have a romantic imagination," I said 
 jokingly. 
 
 He defended himself against this charge to 
 the best of his ability. 
 
 " Do not suppose," he said, " that I like Max- 
 imiliane on account of her badly combed hair: 
 it is because she was unhappy. She had indeed 
 a romantic imagination, as you say ! Her imag- 
 ination gave a dramatic color to Goethe's aban- 
 donment of her that I rather like." 
 
 " A vulgar story !" I replied, " on Goethe's 
 part, at any rate. For that matter, your great 
 man never had any but mediocre sentiments: 
 he was one of those who only know how to love 
 themselves. I have got my knife into him since 
 I have been studying him. Those he deceived 
 — he deceived all those who loved him — were 
 better than he was." 
 
 I expected some protest, for the Goethe wor- 
 shipers will not allow anyone to belittle their 
 idol. Dr. Hort, however, merely shook his good, 
 big, blond head as he replied, with a gleam in 
 his eyes: 
 
 "Are not women, in these matters, always 
 superior to men ? In the first place, it is always 
 the woman who suffers, and — must I admit it ? 
 — I have infinite sympathy with and curiosity 
 anent her suffering." 
 
 We were walking in the park while exchanging 
 these remarks, and just at that minute came in 
 sight of the Sourbelles' little brick house, which
 
 To the End of the Fault. i 75 
 
 was as closely shut up and as silent as usual. 
 Hort pointed to it with his walking-stick and 
 continued : 
 
 " For instance, I would give a deal, a good deal, 
 to know what goes on in there ! For something 
 is going on, of that I am convinced. . . And, 
 as always, when something between a man and 
 woman is going on, it is the woman who is the 
 victim." 
 
 He sighed, then remarked : 
 
 " You are lucky, you, to have been able to 
 talk with M. de Sourbelles." 
 
 "Oh I" said I with a shrug of the shoulders, 
 " for anything he told me !" 
 
 " No matter, you have at least heard the sound 
 of his voice. You got a direct impression from 
 him. You were even in the position to feel 
 something of his character and life." 
 
 " All that I know is that he does not give one 
 the impression of being happy, — nor that of be- 
 ing a brute, I assure you.' 
 
 " He told you nothing about her — about his 
 mysterious companion, of course ? Why does 
 she always hide her face ? Why did she go away ? 
 Why did she come back ? I know well enough 
 that all this is none of my business. . . But 
 that only interests me the more." 
 
 There was in this naive curiosity, which was 
 too benevolent to be displeasing, and besides, 
 was incapable of indiscretion, something really 
 comical.
 
 1 76 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 "Well, console yourself!" I said to the good 
 savant. " It is probable that your unknown 
 friends will go away one of these days as mys- 
 teriously as they came. Then, in addition to the 
 other ' whys,' you will be asking yourself ' Why 
 have they left ?' Then you will forget all about 
 them. So goes the world. We brush up 
 against many mysteries, we know next to noth- 
 ing about our neighbor — a fact which does not 
 prevent us from judging him, on occasion. Be- 
 lieve me, it is better to occupy ourselves about 
 ourselves — or about handsome ladies, dead a hun- 
 dred years, who were so fortunate as to take the 
 fancy of your Goethe." 
 
 Time passed, summer w^as drawing to a close, 
 and the leaves of the old trees in the park were 
 beginning to take on their autumnal tints. My 
 work was well advanced and the time for my 
 departure was drawing near. It was not with- 
 out pleasure that I looked forward to it. I had 
 breathed more Goethean air than my lungs could 
 support, and I was tired of the queer little town 
 which seems to be an anachronism, as much out 
 of place in modern Germany as a cocked hat 
 would be on the head of a Prussian general. I 
 did not therefore suppose that I should see M. 
 de Sourbelles again, or learn anything about 
 him. 
 
 But one morning when I returned to dinner 
 I met Dr. Hort in front of the hotel. He was 
 visibly excited, and appeared to be as much sur-
 
 To the End of the Fault. 177 
 
 prised at my calmness as I was at his agita- 
 tion. 
 
 " Don't you then know anything about it ?" 
 he demanded. 
 
 " No, what is the matter ?" 
 
 " Is it possible ! Why, nothing else has been 
 talked about for hours! Mme. de Sourbelles is 
 dead!" 
 
 And lowering his voice : 
 
 " They do say that she has been poisoned!" 
 
 Thereupon he ran to the head cellar man who 
 was lounging in the hall and who he thought 
 would know something about it. The head 
 cellar man recounted all he knew. The com- 
 missary of police had already been to the house ; 
 there had been an active exchange of telegrams 
 between Weimar and Paris; it had been proved 
 that it was a case of suicide; the woman had 
 taken arsenic, and had suffered horribly; the 
 body probably would be taken to France. 
 
 " And the husband ?" I asked. 
 
 Gossip of the most contradictory kind about 
 the state of M. de Sourbelles' mind was indulged 
 in. According to some he was in despair; others 
 averred that the tragical denouement was his 
 fault ; at first some had even ventured the hypo- 
 thesis that a crime had been committed. In 
 speaking of him the cellar man smiled half dis- 
 dainfully, with that hostile air which is readily 
 assumed towards those one does not understand. 
 
 I was filled with an immense pity for this poor,
 
 I 'j'S) The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 abandoned man, surrounded by suspicion, and 
 ^vho must be suffering horribly with a grief that 
 was condemned to devour itself and Avhich noth- 
 ing could relieve. I could see him shut up in 
 his villa, alone with his dead wife, his memories, 
 his thoughts — his remorse, perhaps. I argued 
 that the sound of a human voice would do him 
 good, that inasmuch as we belonged to the same 
 country I was the only one from whom he could 
 hope for a little help. Nevertheless I did not 
 like to ring at his bell. I wrote a line on my 
 card, expressing my sympathy, and placing my- 
 self at his disposal if I could be of any assistance 
 to him, and sent it to him by one of the hotel 
 servants. A few minutes later I received an 
 answer. M. de Sourbelles begged me to call 
 upon him. I immediately responded to his 
 invitation. 
 
 The house had that desolate appearance of 
 homes where death has entered. Upset as I was 
 I could not help noticing its aspect. It must have 
 been furnished in old German fashion, for in the 
 hall were heavy chairs, a table, and a hanging 
 forged iron lamp in this style. I recognized the 
 same style in the furniture of the drawing-room 
 into which I was ushered; but there it was re- 
 lieved by a number of objects of foreign origin. 
 These denoted an elegant taste, the taste of a 
 woman accustomed to the dainty things of a 
 highly distinguished milieu, and who had sought 
 to transplant something of this milieu to her
 
 To the End of the Faiilt. 1 79 
 
 chance surroundings. Several pictures of the 
 French school attracted my attention. Among 
 them was a Besnard that I had admired at one 
 of the Champs de Mars salons — the profile of a 
 woman standing out in violet shade against the 
 back ground of the setting sun. On the mantel- 
 piece, on which the commonplace ornaments had 
 been left, I remarked two precious vases by 
 Emile Galle. An open volume was on the table, 
 together with two or three yellow covered books. 
 The open volume was Jean Labor's Illusion. 
 From a work basket hung a piece of complicated 
 embroidery, as though it had just been thrown 
 there carelessly. Everything seemed to bear the 
 reflection of the life that had animated it the day 
 before and which had just died out : 
 
 I did not have much time to look about me, 
 however, for M. de Sourbelles entered. I was 
 seized with an emotion so poignant that my 
 knees shook, so terribly painful was his appear- 
 ance. He was no longer the man I had met 
 such a short time before at the table of the 
 Crown Prince Hotel, and whose bright chat 
 touched upon all subjects with almost fa- 
 miliar frankness and ease. His handsome 
 face was drawn and furrowed by wrinkles that I 
 had not seen there ; his swollen eyes gazed rest- 
 lessly around him with haggard look; his hair 
 was dishevelled ; his unbuttoned shirt was open 
 at his breast; the negligence of his attire and 
 manner, which had formerly been so studiously
 
 1 80 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 correct, showed that he had become indifferent 
 to everything. He stopped at the door, looked 
 at me with a despairing gaze, then as I ap- 
 proached him, he held out his hand and mur- 
 mured in a choking voice: 
 " Thanks for coming." 
 
 I stammered a few words that he did not hear. 
 He began to pace to and fro, his hands thrust 
 in the pockets of his smoking jacket, with that 
 air of a caged wild beast which indicates that 
 excitement is at its paroxysm. Soon the nar- 
 row space of the little drawing-room was not 
 sufficient for him and he went on into the dining- 
 room of which I could see the high dresser with 
 its ancient crockery. Long minutes passed in 
 this way. Feeling that no words could relieve 
 him I stood near the unfinished embroidery fol- 
 lowing him with my eyes. At length the bell 
 rang. M. de Sourbelles started, and listened. 
 A telegram was brought to him. He opened it, 
 perused it, crumpled it up with a shrug of his 
 shoulders and began to walk to and fro again. 
 Suddenly he stopped in front of me. 
 
 " Pardon me for receiving you in this manner," 
 he said, with a great effort to speak naturally. 
 " You will excuse me, will you not ?" 
 
 I bowed. He continued: 
 
 " You know ?" 
 
 I nodded affirmatively. 
 
 " You know all ?" he repeated. 
 
 I replied gently :
 
 To the End of the Fault, 1 8 1 
 
 " I know that a great sorrow has fallen upon 
 you." 
 
 He wrung his hands. 
 
 " Ach !" he cried, employing that so expressive 
 German exclamation. " No, you cannot know! 
 For it is too dreadful! .... She suf- 
 fered horribly! .... You cannot imagine it! 
 . ... My God! My God! .... The death 
 struggle was so long ! . . . . You cannot imagine 
 it, it is impossible!" 
 
 He repeated the same words, the same broken 
 sentences without sequence. Then he resumed 
 his walking, stopped in front of me, gazed long 
 at me with an indescribable expression of sor- 
 row and repeated what he had just said, or 
 touched or displaced some object. 
 
 " Only yesterday she was reading this!" he 
 said, picking up one of the volumes I had noticed 
 on the table. " She also worked at this em- 
 broidery." 
 
 He fondled it awhile. 
 
 " She appeared to be so calm. There was no- 
 thing unusual about her. . . . Could I foresee 
 it ? . . . . We talked together affectionately, very 
 affectionately. My God! how she must have 
 suffered to — to inflict this torture upon me. . . . 
 For she was good. . . . Poor, dear soul !" 
 
 Tears stood in his eyes : 
 
 " Yes, poor soul, noble, generous. . . . That 
 was tormented so ! Poor .... poor . , . . " 
 
 He burst into tears. With the movement of o,
 
 1 82 The Sac7'ijice of Silence. 
 
 child that is hurt and looks around for help he 
 stretched out his hands to me and fell into my 
 arms. Then he drew back. 
 
 " Pardon!" he said. " I hardly know you. . . . 
 You could not understand me. . . . But I am 
 choking, choking because I have no one to whom 
 I can tell it— tell it all ! .... Oh ! silence ! . . . 
 If you only knew how heavy it is to bear some- 
 times !,...! said nothing, I kept as quiet as 
 I could. . . . Yet she heard me, she, she who 
 ought never to have known it ! ... It is not 
 my fault, for I did all that I could, all that I could ! 
 . . . . How she must have suffered! .... How 
 she must have suffered!" 
 
 It was to this idea that he reverted cease- 
 lessly; he was clearly thinking more about the 
 dead woman's suffering than his own. He for- 
 got himself. He was weeping in her stead for 
 what she had borne. The pity with which he 
 inspired me became the more keen. But what 
 could I say to him ? I squeezed his hand, and 
 stammered clumsy words to assure him of my 
 sympathy. However awkward I may have been, 
 my sympathy did him good, for he thanked me. 
 
 " I felt that there was a tie between us," he 
 said in calmer tone. " Yet I was scarcely polite 
 when I quitted you. ... I must have ap- 
 peared strange to you. . . . musn't I ? If 
 you knew you would no longer be astonished at 
 anything — at anything except at seeing me alive, 
 now that she is dead 1"
 
 To the End of the Fault. 1 8 3 
 
 He stopped; walked twice around the room, 
 then returned to me. 
 
 " After all, why should you not know ?" he 
 said. " Why should I not tell you everything ? 
 What does it matter now if anybody does know ? 
 It is she who ought never to have known. You 
 will hsten to me, won't you ? Perhaps it will do 
 me good to stir up these things. Come, then! 
 . . . . Let us go to her ! . . . I will not 
 leave her alone. . . . No, I will not leave 
 her alone. . . . Think of it, she has all eter- 
 nity in which to be alone, away from me ! . . . 
 Come, will you ?" 
 
 He quitted the drawing-room. I followed 
 him to the first floor. He ushered me into a 
 sort of boudoir, hung with dark- colored stuffs, 
 cleverly disposed curtains obscured the light 
 from the two windows. There in a shadowy 
 twilight lay the dead woman upon a lounge, sur- 
 rounded by a harvest of flowers that ladened the 
 air heavily with their perfume. A long veil cov- 
 ered her entirely, through which her slim body 
 was scarcely discernible. M. de Sourbelles 
 gazed at her for a moment and took her hand 
 beneath the veil. 
 
 " No," he said, "don't let us stay here! I 
 could not talk before her! . . . Come! . . . 
 Besides, we shall be close by, close by." 
 
 Then opening another door he showed me 
 into a little room which he evidently used as his 
 study.
 
 184 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 " Be seated," he said, handing me a chair 
 " I will tell you. ... I will tell you." 
 
 And, sometimes seated opposite to me, his arm 
 resting on mine, or his face buried in his hands ; 
 sometimes pacing up and down, or interrupting 
 himself to go into the adjoining room, he told 
 me in a broken voice the secret of his life, in 
 about the following terms:
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 M. DE SOURBELLES' LOVE TRAGEDY, 
 
 "Shall I relate everything? No, the details 
 about the beginning of it are not necessary. 
 Moreover, stories of this kind all resemble each 
 other to start with, or, at least, appear to re- 
 semble each other. Ours, though, did not begin 
 like others, that is, not quite. From the out- 
 set there was in our case something sudden, irre- 
 sistible, fatal, a summer storm that a puff of 
 wind prepares in the twinkling of an eye and which 
 bursts before anyone has seen it coming. 
 
 "I was in garrison in a little town in the De- 
 partement du Nord .... Captain — captain of 
 cavalry. I was bored. It w^as not of my own 
 free will that I had chosen a military career, for 
 I had no taste for it. I followed my destiny 
 without uselessly rebelling, though not without 
 regretting what it might have been and would 
 not be; and these moments of regret were mel- 
 ancholy. I was thirty-four years of age. Up 
 to that time I had lived like everybody else. I 
 had had gallant adventures like most of my com- 
 rades, and mainly of the same order — facile, 
 commonplace, taken up without effort, dropped 
 without regret, soon forgotten. No love, except 
 in my youth, one of those little sentimental af- 
 fairs that one imagines one will never get over 
 
 L185J
 
 1 86 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 and which leave but a slight remembrance 
 tinged with ridicule. Naturally I did not realize 
 that I was ignorant of what love was: on the 
 contrary I imagined that I had loved much, suf- 
 fered much, that I had had my share of exalta- 
 tion and happiness. Mere foolishness ! My pas- 
 sions, which were interrupted by every change of 
 garrison, for which I would not have made the 
 smallest sacrifice, which afforded me a little medi- 
 ocre pleasure and had never cost me a tear — 
 these were not love : I know it now well enough. 
 
 "In consequence of some administrative changes 
 the sub-prefect of the town in which I had been 
 stationed for several months was transferred 
 elsewhere. His successor's name was — I will 
 
 call him M. H . There is no particular 
 
 reason why I should not tell you his name, as our 
 story did not remain secret. I prefer, however, 
 not to pronounce it. 
 
 " The arrival and installation of the new sub- 
 perfect were quite an event in the place, espe- 
 cially as M. H enjoyed a vague literary 
 
 notoriety, having published a few books, two or 
 three novels, some historical studies, I know not 
 what. He was said to be witty, and his wife 
 very handsome. It was thought they would in- 
 still a little animation into our social life which 
 was utterly lacking in brilliancy. They arrived 
 with the advent of winter, when the social season 
 was just beginning. I soon met them, at a ball 
 given in their honor by a family that I knew.
 
 M. de Sojirhelles Love Tragedy. 187 
 
 I was introduced to M. H in the smoking- 
 room. He displeased me to the point of irri- 
 tation. He had a weak, cracked voice that set 
 my teeth on edge. He spoke Avith volubility 
 upon politics, literature, the fair sex; he knew 
 something about ever^-thing, had a large fund 
 of anecdotes and bons mots, and was self-com- 
 placent in the extreme. He was moreover very 
 amiable, very considerate with a slight obsequi- 
 ousness; knew how to interrupt himself to listen 
 wth an air of interest assumed with perfect art, 
 to the remarks of a few notables — in short bore 
 himself as a tactful man who is entering into 
 strange circles \^dthout knowing just what his 
 attitude ought to be but who is determined to 
 make himself well viewed. 
 
 "I do not know how it came about, but in the 
 
 course of the evening M. H took my arm, 
 
 and we strolled off like a pair of friends towards 
 the wnnter garden. I remember perfectly well 
 that he was talking to me about the German Em- 
 peror whose impulsive character occasioned him 
 uneasiness. I responded in monosyllables. Sud- 
 denly he said : 
 
 " 'Here comes my wife. Will you permit me 
 to present you to her?' 
 
 "I looked at Mme. H ■ who with another 
 
 woman was advancing slowly and also looking 
 at us. I was dazzled, dazzled out of my wits. 
 Her husband presented me. We exchanged a 
 few insignificant words which I did not hear, so
 
 1 88 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 troubled was I by the sound of her voice. Then 
 
 as M. H — ■ offered his arm to her companion, 
 
 I mechanically offered mine to Mme, H 
 
 and we walked through the salons. 
 
 "When I quitted her wnth a bow, and drinking 
 in her look, we already belonged to each other, 
 although we had exchanged only the most com- 
 monplace words. We feared both of us, I think, 
 to spoil with words the ecstasy that was rising 
 within us; perhaps, too, we experienced that 
 vague fear of each other one feels at one's destiny 
 when it takes shape and becomes threatening. 
 We said nothing to each other, even our eyes re- 
 pressed their eloquence; but I felt a sort of im- 
 perceptible thrill pass through her arm that 
 touched mine, and each of the minutes we passed 
 together in the midst of the crowd that we no 
 longer saw, forged more strongly the chain that 
 linked our two beings. 
 
 "The evening, however, advanced. M. H 
 
 took his wife away. I saw her as she went off 
 with him and her eyes met mine. Oh! how 
 they spoke! How they expressed the mortal 
 anguish of supreme sentiment. How they cried 
 aloud the avowal that had not crossed her lips, 
 how I heard them, how I understood them ! It 
 was a lightning flash: she was no longer there, 
 I remained alone, with heaving breaet, happy, 
 despairing, inebriated, mad — forced however to 
 control myself and to hide my thoughts which 
 I imagined radiated from me. I endeavored to
 
 M. dc Soiirbelles Love Tragedy. 189 
 
 observe the faces of the people in the nearly- 
 deserted salons, and to listen to their talk. That 
 
 they were making comments upon Mme. H 
 
 goes without saying. I thrilled at certain phrases 
 in which her name was pronounced. 
 
 " ' She is wondrously handsome,' said some- 
 body. 
 
 "I was filled with rage against the stranger 
 who dared to admire her. A voice, however, 
 replied : 
 
 '"Yes, she is handsome, but there is an air of 
 coldness about her.' 
 
 "This stupid restriction irritated me still 
 more. It evidently expressed the general im- 
 pression, however, for somebody added: 
 
 '"An icy beauty!' 
 
 " Ah ! the fools ! They had only seen her with 
 blind eyes! Whereas I, instantly, at the first 
 glance, had realized that beneath this studied 
 severity of appearances was a soul of fire. She 
 burned me, was the subject of all my thoughts, 
 agitated them, stirred them and whirled them 
 in a giddy swarm. I ceased to listen and fled to 
 lose myself in one desire — to see her again, every- 
 where, always! 
 
 "Then began for me an existence of anguish 
 and intoxication. I lived a multiplied life, hyp- 
 notised by a sole thought which never left me, 
 which absorbed all my strength, which was so 
 intense that I could not have told whether it 
 was pain or joy. It was always as at the end of
 
 1 90 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 that ball, ths briefest minutes of which I passed 
 my time in evoking: I saw but her, although 
 she was no longer there, I thought only of seeing 
 her again. To meet her again however a great 
 deal of ingenuity was required. Nothing is easy 
 in small towns. In ours there was little sociable 
 life, and previously I had scarcely mixed with 
 it. All at once I became the most assiduous 
 society-seeking officer in the garrison. I fre- 
 quented all the houses that I could visit ; I went 
 to the theatre whenever a touring company 
 visited the town, I did not miss one of the very 
 ordinary concerts that were given twice a month. 
 "Sometimes I caught sight of her at the back 
 of a box and was hardly able to make a salute 
 to her which she would return with a look rather 
 than with a gesture ; or else, hidden in the recess 
 of some drawing-room window, I passed inter- 
 minable soirees on the watch until the lateness 
 of the hour precluded further hope that she 
 would appear; but sometimes she did come, and 
 I spoke to her, heard her voice. At last she 
 invited me to call upon her on her reception day. 
 I went. Soon, by arriving before the usual hour 
 — she, I felt well, was expecting me — I managed 
 to snatch a few minutes alone with her. But 
 what was that? At each meeting my love in- 
 creased; it increased at each combination that 
 brought us together, at each word, each look 
 we exchanged; it increased without cease, it be-
 
 M. dc So7ir belles Love Tragedy. 191 
 
 came more tyrannical, more exacting, more im- 
 patient. 
 
 "It was a period of fever in which I had hours 
 of madness, but which was not prolonged. There 
 were none of the manosuvres common to amor- 
 ous intrigues, no bargain bstween us. Our first 
 avowal was decisive. For my part I did not 
 experience the least internal struggle, the least 
 hesitation, the least scruple. It was without 
 
 any remorse that I went up to M. H and 
 
 shook his hand, although I had the firm inten- 
 tion to take his wife away from him. I was 
 calculating, deceitful, ruse and hypocritical, 
 as much as I could be by nature, without its 
 costing me the slightest effort. As to Mme. 
 
 H who fortunately had no children, I do 
 
 not know to what extent the ties of family, of 
 custom, of society, of established affections, of 
 duty, all the obstacles which sometimes delay 
 and even avert the fatal issue of love, weighed 
 in her mind. Women always have more virtue 
 or more prejudices than men: she must have 
 engaged in many struggles that I knew nothing 
 about. Yet I think she traversed the phase of 
 hesitation as rapidly as I did, and that she loved 
 me as I loved her, that is to say, with absolute- 
 ness, not admitting that anything was more 
 sacred or stronger than this love, or that any- 
 thing could check or diminish it. She responded 
 to my first appeal. She gave herself without 
 beating about the bush, without coquettishness,
 
 192 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 without resistance, out of the pure triumphant 
 joy of belonging to him she loved and of intoxi- 
 cating him with her being." 
 
 M, de 'Sourbelles paused for a moment. He 
 was looking back at the past, resuscitating mem- 
 ories that his words evoked, thinking of these 
 things of long ago, which he perhaps saw in a 
 different light now that the destiny which their 
 sweetness had inaugurated had been accom- 
 plished. Then he passed his hand over his fore- 
 head two or three times and continued: 
 
 "Yes, thus it was. Yet neither was corrupt 
 nor perverse. She had never loved until she 
 knew me, never desired love, never dreamed 
 that she could deviate from the straight line of 
 her life; she was imbued with good sentiments 
 towards her husband and family, with respect 
 for the social laws, fear of the world's judg- 
 ments, and incHned to all that was pure and 
 good — in fact she had all the ideas, all the opin- 
 ions, all the beliefs, all the interests of an honest 
 woman .... I myself was fairly scrupulous 
 in such matters, having in my previous liaisons 
 sought only pleasure and distraction, and once 
 upon a time would have refused to sacrifice 
 serious and respectable interests for the sake 
 of self -gratification. On two occasions I even 
 ceased to visit the homes of close friends of 
 mine for fear of causing trouble, although this 
 step was a great sacrifice. I was therefore — ■ 
 I can render myself this justice— an honest rnan,
 
 M. dt Soiirbellcs Love Tragedy, 193 
 
 perhaps even with more delicacy than the term 
 usually implies when the senses are in ques- 
 tion. Nevertheless I do not believe that a guilty 
 liaison was ever established with more simplicity : 
 it was as though we had always been destined 
 the one for the other, as though our meeting 
 had in an instant effaced all our past, wiped 
 out all obstacles between our two lives. I only 
 admired my mistress the more for it : I esteemed 
 her noble and generous. I told myself that she 
 confided in my love whole-heartedly, that she 
 had given herself to me without reserve, with- 
 out the petty hesitations or paltry calculation 
 with which women are commonly prone to com- 
 plicate the gift of their bodies; and attached to 
 her by a stronger bond than any sacred tie I 
 swore that she should never regret her confidence. 
 "You read novels, monsieur, you have told 
 me so. Very well! You cannot have failed 
 to remark that authors who describe liaisons of 
 the same kind as ours are apt to discover in them 
 germs of contempt, or at least of mistrust, and 
 occasionally of hatred, as- though beings whom 
 love unites without reference to the social laws 
 must perforce be enemies or accomplices. Cer- 
 tain of our moralists, to whom authority in such 
 matters is ascribed, have developed the thesis 
 that the man is inevitably inclined to distrust 
 and disdain the woman who has given herself 
 to him in defiance of her duty, because he appre- 
 hends that she will be as faithless to her new
 
 194 ^^^^ Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 troth as she was to that which he induced her 
 to betray. They approve it. They profess to 
 see in it a sort of justice, a moral, and what not, 
 a guarantee for social order, a peril great enough 
 to prevent the fault, to check upon the down 
 grade hearts that look ahead into the future, 
 greedy of the happiness they withhold .... 
 Ah ! monsieur, how I pity the poor creatures who 
 know, experience, or imagine such sentiments! 
 For their souls must indeed be low or pusillani- 
 mous, and incapable of the grand devotions and 
 sublime sacrifices of love! .... No, no, I did 
 not doubt her, in spite of the deceit into which 
 I was dragging her. I could read her heart as 
 an open book, as I am sure she could read mine. 
 I knew that she was pure, in spite of all, through 
 abnegation. I should have considered myself 
 the worst of wretches had I entertained for her 
 aught but infinite gratitude and a tenderness 
 without limit. 
 
 "We were imprudent, careless of the usual ruses 
 and precautions. We feared nothing except 
 that we should not see enough of each other, 
 although we were menaced by the ever wakeful 
 inquisitiveness of a small town, and sure that it 
 would be clear sighted. Moreover dissimula- 
 tion weighed upon both of us : it seemed to be the 
 sole blemish upon our love, the only fault we 
 were committing. So without making up our 
 minds to elope or to do any of those conspicu- 
 ous things which partake of the reprehensible
 
 M. de Sourbellcs Love Tragedy. 195 
 
 character of bravado and cruelty we waited 
 quietly for what was bound to happen in due 
 course, accepting in advance without fear all 
 the possible consequences. 
 
 "For my part I went further: I hoped with 
 all my soul that the discovery of our relations 
 would be made at once. For I did not love my 
 love for the furtive rendezvous she gave me, for 
 the short hours that I stole from her existence, 
 for her hurried kisses, for our too brief moments 
 of intimacy: I loved her with the impatient de- 
 sire to consecrate my whole life to her, with that 
 need of duration, that thirst of eternity, which 
 is the stamp of real love, in the forgetfulness of 
 all that was not she, with the complete devotion 
 of my absorbed being. She loved me with equal 
 ardor, although she was more timid; for however 
 great their love may be women have an uncon- 
 querable fear of scandal. She did not escape 
 this instinct of her sex. She trembled when she 
 thought of the hour which we foresaw, which I 
 desired, which she desired, too, when our dear 
 secret discovered would rivet us the one to the 
 other. When that hour struck, however, she 
 proved herself very brave: it was as though the 
 real danger had dispelled her fears, as though 
 her last scruples had vanished at the decisive 
 moment. I can still see her as she entered my 
 room, where she had never come before, pale, but 
 very calm and saying as she held out both hands 
 to me:
 
 196 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 '"He knows everything!* 
 
 "She gazed at me, confident, awaiting my 
 answer. 
 
 "'Very well!' I said. 'Shall we leave?' 
 
 "She hesitated, though only for a few seconds, 
 taking the final, supreme measure of her sacri- 
 fices, thrilled with a last thrill in face of the un- 
 known future upon which we were about to enter. 
 
 '"When you like,' she replied. 
 
 "I had so often calculate! what would have 
 to be done in these circumstances that in a flash 
 my m'nd decided upon the steps to arrange my 
 departure from regular life with decency : 
 
 '"I shall require a few days to get ready,' I 
 told her. 
 
 "S'le was not surprised at this restriction, which 
 she knew was inevitable. 
 
 " 'Very well,' she said, 'but I shall not return 
 horns.' 
 
 "We at once agreed upon the place where she 
 was to wait for me. 
 
 "We discussed with the greatest calmness our 
 plan of conduct, the lines of which we decided 
 without hesitation, as though it were the simplest 
 matter in the world. This discussion, however, 
 led me to ask her whether she suspected the 
 intentions of her husband. 
 
 " 'No,' she responded, gazing at me frankly. 
 'I presume he will apply for a divorce. I hope 
 so. What else can he do? ' 
 
 "She paused, but added almost immediately;
 
 M. dt Soiirbellcs Love Tragedy. 197 
 
 *• ' Since he has not killed me.' 
 
 "'True,' I said, 'there is nothing else left for 
 him to do.' 
 
 "In reality I was thinking of other possible 
 solutions, but I wished to spare her the fear or 
 emotion the mention of them would cause her; 
 I therefore pressed her as much as I could to 
 leave. 
 
 "A few hours later, after a short absence I 
 found on returning home M. H 's card. 
 
 "It was most unexpected, unusual, incorrect 
 — the only incident that I could not have fore- 
 seen. 
 
 " ' Still,' thought I, ' a man in his position, if 
 there be any sentiment about him, has a right to 
 place himself above the habitual code that regu- 
 lates the petty differences between men: he has 
 the right to avenge himself as he deems fit.' 
 
 "I therefore at once sent word to him to notify 
 him that I had returned and held myself at his 
 disposal. 
 
 "Half an hour later he arrived. 
 
 "I supposed that he had come with the inten- 
 tion of killing me, ^.nd I was ready to defend 
 myself, I assure you, for life was dear to me. I 
 had only to look at him to understand that I had 
 nothing to fear from him. He was a changed 
 man, ravaged, and as it were ennobled, by an im- 
 mense grief. 
 
 Never would I have believed that his insipid 
 face could express such anguish nor tha,t there
 
 198 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 could be such a faculty for suffering in the insig- 
 nificant functionary who only the previous day 
 was fluttering and gossiping about the drawing- 
 rooms of the town. I was expecting to hate him : 
 I pitied him. Yes, he inspired me wdth profound 
 pity, with that almost physical pity one feels 
 in presence of the wounded and the dying. I 
 would have liked to express my compassion for 
 him, to show him I know not what bizarre sym- 
 pathy. But we were enemies. 
 
 ' ' I had risen when he entered. I handed him 
 a chair. He refused it with a shake of the head, 
 then dropped into it. He was panting. His 
 hands twisted and stiffened upon his knees. Two 
 or three times he opened his mouth to speak, but 
 no words came. He avoided looking at me. At 
 length, in a smothered voice, he murmured: 
 
 " ' I have the right to kill you.' 
 
 "In his crushed condition this menace was 
 almost ridiculous, I assure you, therefore I 
 did not take it up. « 
 
 " ' But fear nothing,' he continued. 
 
 "At this word I could not repress a gesture, 
 which he checked with a sign of his hand, a shrug 
 of the shoulder, and even more with a look — 
 with an undefinable look, a look that will always 
 haunt me. 
 
 " 'You do not understand me,' he explained. 
 'I know very well that ycu are not afraid. No; 
 what I mean is that even 'hough I have the right 
 to kill you I shall never be an assassin.'
 
 M. dc Soiirbellcs Love Tragedy. 199 
 
 "He interrupted himself to repeat two or three 
 times these mysterious words, which no doubt 
 expressed long reflection that I could not know 
 an5rthing about : 
 
 " 'Besides ,who knows ? . . . . Does one ever 
 know ?' 
 
 "Then there was an interval of silence. He 
 was following his thought, suddenly distracted 
 from the present, serious as it was, by some- 
 thing still more serious. I was a prey to an in- 
 describable uneasiness. How I would have pre- 
 ferred an act of violence to this grief, which was 
 so profound that it thought neither of bearing 
 up nor of hiding itself, but overflowed before 
 me who had caused it, as it might have done be- 
 fore a friend ! 
 
 " 'Nevertheless,' he finally went on, the world 
 cannot hold both of us. That is your opinion 
 also, I presume ?' 
 
 "I nodded affirmatively. 
 
 "'Therefore,' he continued, ' we must fight, 
 fight to the death !' 
 
 "Again he was transformed. He was resolute 
 and energetic, and there was a gleam of hate 
 in his eyes. I preferred to see him thus. My 
 pity vanished. I was face to face with a real 
 enemy. 
 
 "'When you like, how you like,' I said. 
 
 " 'Good,' he exclaimed as though relieved, 
 ' very good ! I wished to see you although it is
 
 200 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 not the ragular thing .... You know .... 
 So that we could understand each other .... 
 before the seconds .... Seconds always tr}' 
 to dimmish the risk of danger: what we must do 
 is to increase it, on the contrary! .... We 
 must impose our common will upon our seconds 
 .... Can you shoot?' 
 
 " 'Yes.' 
 
 " ' So much the better. So can I. Well at 
 fifteen paces, with aim .... until one of us is 
 unable to fire any more. Does that suit you ?' 
 
 " ' Perfectly.' 
 
 " 'I will manage not to have a doctor; you do the 
 same .... They would stop us, perhaps.' 
 
 "I had some difficulty in making him under- 
 stand that we could never find seconds who 
 would consent to let us fight without a doctor 
 being present. He kept repeating: 
 
 " 'But in the army?' 
 
 "For a minute or two we discussed this ques- 
 tion calmly, without violence, like persons sep- 
 arated only by a futile incident and anxious to 
 agree. He gave way at last. 
 
 " 'So be it!' he said. 'But between ourselves 
 it is well understood that we stop only in the last 
 extremity. One of us is in the way — in the 
 way ! 
 
 "Then, passing to another order of ideas, he 
 began : 
 
 "'As to the pretext for the encounter '
 
 M. de SoiLvbellcs^ Love Ti^agedy. 20 r 
 
 "He considered a moment, then shrugging his 
 shoulders with a gesture of utter indifference, 
 concluded : 
 
 " 'Well, there is no need for a pretext .... 
 After it is over everybody will know all about 
 it .... So what does it matter?' 
 
 "He rose, stronger, calmer, restored, as though 
 this prospect of blood consoled him. 
 
 " 'We are thoroughly agreed upon all points?' 
 he queried again at the door. 
 
 "'Thoroughly agreed,' I replied. 
 
 "And he departed. 
 
 "The encounter took place the next day on 
 the Belgian frontier, under the conditions decided 
 between us. 
 
 "I was very calm, perfectly resolute, my con- 
 science as easy as it would have been on the eve 
 of a battle in which one kills or dies to do his 
 duty. The life of this man, whom I had so 
 terribly wronged and who had just spoken to me 
 with a generosity I could not mistake, seemed 
 to me to be totally insignificant. My own, too, 
 for that matter. I knew very well that if the 
 fortune of arms turned against me my love would 
 not survive me, and as I cared for nothing on 
 earth but her, I was ready to die. But I was 
 resolved to defend myself to the best of my 
 ability, that is to say, to do my best to kill M. 
 
 H , who stood between her and me. I 
 
 repeat : I was indifferent alike to life and death,
 
 202 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 since I knew that she was mine for death as for 
 life. The only sadness I felt was at not seeing 
 her, at having to pass away from her the hours 
 which perhaps were to be my last." 
 
 Again M. de Sourbelles stopped to question 
 me. 
 
 "Maybe you think me abominable?" he said. 
 "If that be so it is because you have never loved! 
 When one loves, all that is not love is effaced 
 .... And then, is it our fault if life has absurd 
 exieencies, if laws and customs are in flagrant 
 contradiction with nature? I do not feel the 
 least necessity for pleading extenuating circum- 
 stances in my favor, I assure you. Was it not 
 revolting that this woman shotild be shackled 
 for life to a man she did not love, and that I 
 could have her only secretly, shamefully, I who 
 adored her?" 
 
 It will be understood that this was not the 
 moment to argue about my interlocutor's theories. 
 And yet he gazed at me as though his conscience, 
 aroused perhaps after being long dormant, 
 needed a word to quiet or absolve it. But a 
 man when he is of calm mind is by instinct the 
 defender of established morals and of universally 
 recognized institutions: when one is in a normal 
 condition it is difficult to understand the views 
 and excited condition of those who have ceased 
 to respect these things; one regards such per-
 
 AT. de Sou7^belles Love Tragedy. 203 
 
 sons as dangerous and feels rather like taking 
 refuge from them. Although I greatly pitied 
 the man who was struggling before me it was 
 impossible to agree with him. I therefore an- 
 swered evasively : 
 
 "There are times, in effect, when one sees 
 things in a special light." 
 
 He looked at me as though he sought in my 
 eyes the real sense of these vague words, under- 
 stood that it was not that of approval, and shrugged 
 his shoulders. 
 
 "Notwithstanding all that followed," he said, 
 "I have not changed my point of view. No 
 doubt I have regretted the fate of this gallant 
 man, and have deplored the fact that he was my 
 victim .... But I have never had any remorse 
 — never. And I never shall have any." 
 
 His mournful attitude belied his words. 
 
 " Seeing that I am here," he continued, as if 
 resuming his narration, " I need scarcely say 
 
 what the issue of the combat was. M. H 
 
 fired first ; his ball grazed my neck. I returned 
 the fire deliberately and shot him dead." 
 
 He paused and looked at me again. I had not 
 a word to say. He rose and went into the next 
 room, doubtless to ask of the dead woman whose 
 lips were for ever dumb the words of comfort 
 that she alone perhaps could have uttered. He 
 remained a few minutes by her, returned, and 
 paced two or three times around the little room 
 twisting his handkerchief in his nervous fingers
 
 2o4 ' "TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 as he did so. His emotion was extreme. He 
 manao-ed however to dominate it, reseated him- 
 self with an effort and recommenced in a 
 smothered voice that gradually became firmer: 
 
 " A few hours later I had rejoined my love. 
 
 " She was far from expecting such a denoue- 
 ment for I think she little knew her husband. 
 She had always considered him to be a man of 
 pacific disposition, prudent, and little subject to 
 dangerous impulses, and she had never suspected 
 that he loved her. I did not tell her about our 
 interview. I allowed her to suppose that M. 
 
 H had given way to an impulse due to 
 
 amour-propre rather than to love Alas! 
 
 we could not tell each other everything ! . . . . 
 She also did not tell me all. I saw passing in her 
 large terrified eyes a whole world of thoughts, 
 but she did not give expression to them. I 
 know not whether she was stricken in her heart 
 or in her conscience, whether old memories 
 thrilled within her, whether a secret voice was 
 reproaching her cruelly for the blood that had 
 just been shed. I can believe, I have reason to 
 believe, that she suffered even more than I (M. 
 de Sourbelles did not notice that he was con- 
 tradicting himself), in her inmost heart, from the 
 irremediable act that delivered us to each other, 
 from that sort of comphcity in— in crime, to 
 call things by their conventional name — which 
 henceforward formed the most sacred of bonds 
 between us. But she did not say so : her habitual
 
 M. de So7L7'helles Love Tragedy. 205 
 
 impenetrability served her rnarvellously, as did 
 also her force of character which I was to learn 
 to know. I suppose she accepted the accom- 
 plished act with the energetic serenity that 
 vigorous natures generally manifest in face of 
 the irreparable. However this may be, never 
 did she utter one word that could give me 
 ground for suspecting that the tragic event has 
 cast a shadow upon her conscience, and if she 
 did suffer she was heroic enough to suffer in 
 silence. 
 
 " You know the world, monsieur; you know 
 that it is fvill of indulgence for compromises, for 
 semi-faults, for situations in which there is noth- 
 ing but cowardice, whereas it is pitiless towards 
 those who break its moulds and cut loose from 
 its hypocrisies. However we had neither the 
 illusion that we could, nor the desire to, become 
 reconciled to it one day, and we did not for a 
 minute dream of imploring its pardon. We 
 knew well that between us and the world there 
 was something more insurmountable than any 
 barrier. We realized that we were irrevocably 
 separated from it, that our punishment and our 
 reward were absolute isolation, an isolation in 
 which we should be all in all to each other, in 
 which we could have no other hope, no other joy, 
 no other ambition, no other aim, in a word, no 
 other reason for being than our love. Do you 
 know that I am proud of having understood this 
 at once, without experiencing the least appre-
 
 ?o6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 hension at the terrible burden that we had to 
 bear together, without regretting all that was 
 behind me — family, friends and career ? Posi- 
 tively. It seemed to me that my soul had 
 expanded, that I had raised myself above life, 
 that I was breathing a new, a free air. The 
 earth now seemed to us to be but a scene of 
 which we filled the foreground, while in the 
 background glided invisible supernumeraries. 
 
 " I often thought then, monsieur, of a scene 
 in some comedy whose title I do not remember, 
 in which an ingenious moralist has very wittily 
 depicted the fear, ennui, anticipated lassitude 
 and especially the cowardice of a man whose 
 ambition had been to dishonor a woman vulgarly, 
 in a conventional manner, without breaking 
 away from anything, and to whom that woman 
 — a poor minded woman, I admit — came one fine 
 day and offered herself wholly, for life. This 
 situation, which was very human, as they say, 
 made me laugh like everyone else and murmur: 
 ' How true to life that is !' I felt that I could no 
 longer even have smiled at it, that the only senti- 
 ment it would have aroused in me would have 
 been a gentle commiseration for these two paltry, 
 insipid souls, too puny for their destiny. I 
 feared nothing. The future opened before me 
 in a sort of splendor. I had entered into grand 
 eternal love, and was wildly happy to feel myself 
 walled therein, so to speak, with no chance of 
 escape from it.
 
 M. de Sourbellcs Love Tj-agedy. 207 
 
 ** INIayts the description of my sentiments is 
 not particularly interesting to yoti ? Yon would 
 like to know what hers was, no doubt ? . . . Ah! 
 that is the question ! . . . . Like all true women 
 she kept the mystery to herself: that, perhaps, 
 is why she inspired me with such love. . . . And 
 then, for me to be able to know her some day, 
 for me to be able to solve the delicious enigma 
 that her words, her silences, her gaze, her 
 caresses always were, other events than those 
 which followed would have been necessary. 
 Understand me well, I beg: we adored each 
 other; but love had come so quickly, so violently, 
 so blindly, that it had preceded intimacy. We 
 were still unknown ground to each other. For 
 my part I who had loved her without knowing 
 her, continued in ignorance of her. I did not 
 suffer from this then : my love excluded curiosity. 
 But now I suffer that I never knew her. I shall 
 suffer always." 
 
 Here ensued one of those feverish pauses by 
 which M. de Sourbelles's narration was broken. 
 He again returned to the dead woman's side. 
 Although his absence lasted several minutes his 
 singular preoccupation was not interrupted, for 
 on returning he repeated: 
 
 " I was never to know her, never ! . . . . For 
 now all becomes confounded and confused ; now 
 comes the dreadful shock, hours of despair worse
 
 2o8 The Sac7'-ijice of Silence. 
 
 than death, the mere remembrance of which is 
 a lance that pierces me, a fire that burns me, 
 an unsolaceable grief in which also is shame, yes, 
 the shame of being a man, of having a weak and 
 cowardly heart, a heart of mud. 
 
 " We had to leave the town, did we not ? 
 Well, the events I have recounted took place in 
 the autumn. Where should we go to pass the 
 beginning of the winter ? We sought for skies 
 that would suit us, and fixed upon a place in 
 Italy, in the region of the lakes. We wanted to 
 find a quiet, pretty spot favorable to forgetful- 
 ness and to happiness, a place sufficiently out of 
 the way for us to be alone without being embar- 
 rassed by our isolation, away from the hostile 
 crowd and from hotels, one of those places which 
 kindly nature seems to have garnished expressly 
 for certain conditions of mind. We knew of 
 none which at that season of the year could 
 better respond to our aspirations. 
 
 " In the pink villa which we had hired on the 
 Italian shore of Lake Lugano days passed, days 
 of infinite briefness. The waves, green with the 
 reflection of the chestnut woods, murmured 
 around the walls of our terrace that was odorous 
 with the perfume of the olca fragrans. The 
 little valleys that rose in gentle slopes from the 
 lake towards the mountains were still carpeted 
 with cyclamens. We thought of nothing. The 
 past existed no more for us than did the rest 
 of the world : the same mountains which barred
 
 M. de Soitrbclles Love Tragedy. 209 
 
 our horizon also shut out our recollections. 
 ' When one has lived such days as these,' we 
 said sometimes in those hours when we sought to 
 fathom the unknown future, ' one has realised 
 one's life, and it does not matter what may hap- 
 pen.' I believed that, monsieur. Then I fancied 
 that one could lay in a store of happiness, as one 
 saves money for one's old age. Alas! I have 
 since learned that past happiness cannot com- 
 pensate for present sorrow. I now know that 
 the charm of the happiest hour evaporates in 
 bitterness and desolation. My present suffer- 
 ing is as profound as my happiness was complete. 
 But it will last longer .... It will last .... 
 It will last." 
 
 A sob that he could not repress interrupted 
 M. de Sourbelles. It took him a minute or two 
 to control himself. Then he continued: 
 
 *' We lived alone in that little villa. A woman 
 of the district kept the house in order and pre- 
 pared our meals, which were always extremely 
 frugal. The little details of housekeeping that 
 we had to look after amused us greatly. We 
 were enchanted with everything. It was an 
 idyll. There is at the bottom of our nature a 
 childish playfulness that happiness brings out. 
 How astonished would they have been, those 
 who thought they knew my love and judged her 
 cold, indifferent, or too serious — how astonished 
 would they have been could they have seen her 
 playing at housekeeping, laughing gaily at her
 
 2IO TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 own awkwardness and rejoicing at her emanci- 
 pation from the manners and customs of society- 
 women ! As for mc, I congratulated myself, as 
 though upon a supreme victory, at having awak- 
 ened the child in her nature, the delicious child, 
 wilful and tender, sweet and fantastic, impulsive, 
 full of surprises, ardent, made up of contrasts as 
 real children are, that none save myself would 
 ever know. 
 
 "One evening, after we had lingered on the 
 terrace where the breeze was somewhat chilly — 
 she was clad in a light dress, a dress of gauze, 
 and had thrown a mantilla over her head — we 
 thought we would take some tea. She was 
 always amused when we had to serve ourselves. 
 Comparing ourselves to children playing at get- 
 ting dinner ready, we laughed heartily. 
 
 " ' Shall we find what we require ?' I asked. 
 
 " ' We will see,' she replied. 
 
 " She fetched the tea, the sugar and a spirit 
 
 lamp. As she was preparing it '* 
 
 M. de Sourbelles' voice sank almost to a 
 whisper, as though it required an immense effort 
 on his part to continue, and I could scarcely 
 understand the few brief, broken sentences in 
 which he summarized the accident : 
 
 " ' Suddenly the lamp exploded . . . . T saw 
 her enveloped in flames .... I rushed to her 
 and wrapped a blanket round her .... She 
 had not uttered a cry .... She only looked at 
 me with despairing eyes .... She was covered
 
 M. dc Sour be lies* Love Tragedy. 2 1 1 
 
 with horrible burns .... Her head, her face, 
 her body .... all over .... all over .... 
 Oh! my God!" 
 
 A long silence ensued. M. de Sourbelles 
 leaned and writhed upon one of the arms of his 
 chair, his face buried in his hands; he was 
 doubtless living over again the details of the 
 frightful scene ; I could hear his panting breath 
 punctuating his recollections. 
 
 " ' Perhaps you know what to do in such a 
 case ?" he continued at length. " I did not .... 
 I did what I could .... Think of it ! I had to 
 leave her alone for awhile .... Yes, alone 
 .... w^hile I sought help .... I had to wake 
 up the neighbors, w^ho did not understand me, 
 try to explain to them as they leaned out of their 
 windows .... They went for a doctor, but it 
 was a long w-ay off, at Lugano .... Oh ! in 
 what agony the hours dragged on ! . ... She 
 was suffering horribly, but uttered no complaint, 
 silent as she had always been at grave and criti- 
 cal moments, all her pain in her eyes. They 
 followed me ceaselessly, those eyes ; whenever I 
 moved I could feel them fixed upon me; I 
 divined their mute questions .... I turned 
 around her, not daring to touch her poor peeled 
 flesh .... When she asked for anything I tried 
 to get it for her ; that was all I could do. At last
 
 2 1 2 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 I heard the doctor's carriage coming along the 
 road. He had brought the necessary bandages 
 and things. He examined her, attended to her, 
 and reassured me. 
 
 '"It is horribly painful,' he said, ' but there 
 is no danger: she will recover.' 
 
 " It seemed to me that the heavens became 
 illumined, for I had thought that she was lost. 
 
 " Her recovery was slow, but some of the 
 burns had penetrated deeply. . . . She lived, 
 however. . . . The fever left her. . . . Her 
 poor ravaged body restored itself by degrees. 
 A few days were filled with the usual sweetness 
 of convalescence. . . . But when she saw her- 
 self. . . . Oh ! when she saw herself in the 
 hand mirror that could not be refused ! Profit- 
 ing by one of the short minutes that I v/as not 
 there, she asked the Sister of Charity who was 
 watching beside her to give it to her. . . . 
 When I returned she called me to her. The 
 shutters were closed, the curtains drawn, and as 
 the latter were thin, shawls had been pinned to 
 them to shut out the light. Finding the room 
 in darkness I at once guessed what had occurred. 
 She took my hand, and murmured : 
 
 " ' Go away from here ! Leave me ! I will 
 not have you see me again !' 
 
 " I burst into tears, and covered with kisses 
 her hand which she tried to withdraw. She her- 
 self did not cry. Summoning all her energy she 
 ^ent on firmly:
 
 M. de Sourbelles Love Tragedy. 1 1 
 
 o 
 
 " ' No, no, I will not have you love me. You 
 must not love me any longer!' 
 
 " I said all that I could say. I swore that my 
 love for her was eternal, that nothing could 
 diminish it, that m.y life was hers as hers was 
 mine, and — I know not what. And as I feared 
 that in her despair she might do something des- 
 perate, I declared that I would not leave her for 
 an instant until she had solemnly promised me 
 not to entertain such wild thoughts. She yielded 
 at last, and promised, but oh ! with what sad- 
 ness I 
 
 " ' We will stay together, since you wish it,' she 
 said. ' Maybe you would be still more unhappy 
 were we to separate. . . . But when you wish 
 to leave me remember that you are free !' 
 
 " Free! If you knew, monsieur, how I felt 
 myself bound to her by a bond stronger than any 
 that was ever invented by man, than by any sol- 
 emn oath, any sacrament, any sacred word! 
 .... I belonged to her by the strength of the 
 pity I felt for her and by something more ; I saw 
 her as I loved her, with her beauty still vividly 
 before my eyes. I rebelled at the very idea 
 that a stupid accident could threaten the eternal 
 character of my love. I flattered myself also 
 with the hope of a complete cure. 
 
 *' Naturally, we could not think of remaining 
 in a spot where we had suffered so much: I 
 could not bear the serene gaiety of the surround- 
 ing view. We left as soon as the doctor would
 
 2 1 4 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 allow her to travel. Our desire was to find some 
 place where we could abide without ever seeing 
 a face we knew. Such a place could scarcely be 
 found in Italy. There is not one of its little 
 towns that is not overrun by tourists. It af- 
 forded us hospitality till the end of the winter, 
 however. Then, weary of wandering from 
 place to place, we resumed consideration of our 
 plan for a permanent residence. I argued that 
 there was less chance of meeting French people 
 in Germany than anywhere else. Now, why did 
 we select Weimar ? I have not any idea. We 
 came here by chance, the place pleased us be- 
 cause of its fine shady trees, we found it less 
 Prussian than the other towns, the souvenirs of 
 Goethe interested us, and thus our choice was 
 made." 
 
 This part of his narration had cost M. de Sour- 
 belles a visible effort. He paused an instant, 
 gazed at me, made a vague gesture and contin- 
 ued: 
 
 " Up to this point, monsieur, I have been able 
 to recount our history in its exact details. Now 
 I hardly know how to go on. There are no more 
 incidents, nothing further occurred. We were 
 shut up in this house. We lived alone without 
 hearing the sound of any other voices than our 
 own and those of our serA'-ants, kno%\4ng nothing 
 about those who surrounded us, nor of those we 
 had quitted, nor of the world. Whatever took 
 place was only in the tenebrousness of our in-
 
 M. de Sourbclles Love Tragedy. 215 
 
 tnost selves, and we never disclosed it. We were 
 guarded in our words, we weighed their sense 
 and calculated their impression. Each wondered 
 what the other was thinking. We had no confi- 
 dant save our silence, which was eloquent and 
 which seemed to speak tons. . . . Alas! there 
 was something terrible between us — love that 
 was dying, not naturally, gradually losing its fer- 
 vor and ardor, becoming attenuated into a pure 
 affection, a holy tenderness, but a violent death, 
 in all its vigor, rebelhously resisting to the last, 
 even as a man cut down in the fullness of his 
 l"fe, in the enjoyment of the completest happi- 
 ness it can offer, and who clings to it with all 
 the strength of despair. 
 
 "Oh! wretches that we are! .... Weak, 
 weak, mean of heart, halt of soul! We uplift 
 ourselves with all our desire tow^ards the infinite 
 of sentiment, towards that supernatural world 
 where love blooms in the absolute, sheltered 
 from the vicissitudes of our life. Vain efforts! 
 We are dependent upon what we are, upon our 
 sens3S, upon our external being, upon what is 
 most lamentable in us! 
 
 " As long as she suffered and during her long 
 convalescence I thought only of tending her, of 
 saving her, of curing her. But when our regu- 
 lar course of life was resumed I could not help 
 but see that she was no longer the same. She 
 was ugly, with that ugliness of a spoiled, scarred 
 body, with that iigliness which is the more — oh!
 
 2i6 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 I will not say the word — which is the more 
 painful, becaiise it is not natural, which is an af- 
 front to our weakness. She was ugly, and the 
 accident that had destroyed her beauty had not 
 at the same time affected her youthfulness nor 
 her power to love. 
 
 " And I ? . 
 
 " Oh ! I was full of tenderness, pity, affection 
 and devotion. I experienced towards her those 
 sentiments that beauty and nobleness of soul can 
 inspire. But it was love no longer — love had 
 gone, had ceased to exist. I knew how she would 
 suffer if she succeeded in reading my heart : what 
 sentiments can replace love for women who still 
 love ? . . . And I lied with my words, with my 
 looks, with my kisses; I played the comedy of 
 love as best I could, with all my despair, with all 
 the wild need I felt of loving in spite of myself 
 until death ! How can I express it ? I know not. 
 There are no phrases to express such a state, im- 
 mobile, a sort of status quo in which neverthe- 
 less one loses ground every minute, for where is 
 the woman who is not. soon able to see through 
 us ? We cannot deceive them about our hearts, 
 except when they are content to be deceived. 
 This was not the case. She wanted to know; 
 she had that thirst for cruel truth that was in her 
 nature, and which moreover had always inspired 
 her with a distrust that triumphant love alone 
 had been able to overcome." 
 
 M. de Sourbelles stopped. His animation had
 
 M. dc Sourbrllcs Love Tra(j[edy ll'; 
 
 gTadiially increased to excitement. When he be- 
 came calmer he resumed: 
 
 " I need hardly say that she never was here 
 what she had been in Italy. There were no more 
 outbursts of that joyous childishness which had 
 enchanted me in our little pink house, no more 
 gaiety, no more abandon. She had become the 
 silent one of former days. I felt that she could 
 read me in spite of myself, that she was not be- 
 ing duped, that I could not deceive her. . . . Nov^', 
 I shall have no other thought than to recall her 
 words, her gestures, her silences, to analyse them 
 and try to find out what they meant, to interro- 
 gate my slightest recollections: for how could I 
 live without knowing what was passing within 
 her during that slow death-struggle of our love ? 
 
 " Did she understand, and was she indulgent 
 for this weakness of a poor heart which she had 
 believed was stronger and better ? Or did she 
 esteem me contemptible, and were her silences 
 full only of disdain ? Or did these silences mask 
 a sentiment similar to that I myself entertained, 
 the despairing regret of the accident that had 
 destroyed something of my soul as it had des- 
 troyed her beauty ?....! shall never know. 
 Rack my memory as I may I shall not know. 
 She took her secret with her. She never ut- 
 tered a word that could have betrayed it. When 
 you passed for the first time before our little 
 villa, looking so gay in its bouquet of trees, you 
 did not suspect, did you, monsieur, that they were
 
 2 1 8 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 a cartain behind which was beiiij^ enacted a 
 drama that must seem to you a very exceptional 
 one ?" 
 
 " Exceptional ? Not so very, perhaps ? I 
 have often thought that in our case, hazard sim- 
 ply precipitated, by rendering it more tragical, 
 the denouement that was bound to come sooner 
 or later. For love is not eternal: nothing is 
 eternal, not even in the limited sense that we can 
 accord to the word. Even had she remained 
 beautiful we should eventually have ceased to 
 love each other all the same, should we not ? 
 Like so many others before us who have experi- 
 enced this same illusion of eternity, like so many 
 others who will experience it after us, and who 
 in the same way will feel it breaking in their fra- 
 gile hearts, like so many poor beings who have 
 desired the impossible, that the reality has 
 ankylosed, petrified, until they have fallen by a 
 fall that is a very law of our nature, from exalta- 
 tion to indifference — or lower! We at least did 
 not drop so low; something preserved us, that 
 very thing which was so rare and so tragical in 
 our history — the solitude with which we were 
 surrounded, our isolation in the midst of a world 
 whose laws we had broken, the horror we had of 
 renouncing our dream. Our love was mutilated, 
 but its stump moved within us; if sorrow had 
 replace! joy our internal life remained vibratory, 
 feverish, and its quivers kept us drawn towards 
 each other.
 
 M. dc Sjurbcllcs Love Tragedy. 219 
 
 " I know well enough that in conrse of time 
 sentiments become dulled. One cannot remain 
 long in the acute state in which we were ; one 
 issues from it as one escapes from all strained 
 and insoluble situations — through habitude. I 
 sometimes used to think our destiny would be 
 to gradually abdicate the love which we still 
 desired, and to become resigned to the existence 
 which was our lot. With the aid of time we 
 should no doubt have done so and have found a 
 sort of equilibrium. An incident, the conse- 
 quences of which we could not foresee, changed 
 all this. 
 
 " As I have already told you, monsieur, our 
 rupture with the world had been complete. We 
 had accepted it. In spite of the misfortunes 
 that had befallen us, in spite pf the doubts which 
 assailed us, we never made any attempt to re- 
 new our relations with it. One of her sisters 
 had alone kept up a correspondence with her. 
 This sister, married to an unknown writer, living 
 in Paris, in a milieu intelligent and independent, 
 had, if not excused, at least understood the irre- 
 sistible force of the passion that had thrown us 
 together, more especially as she had always 
 manifested an enthusiastic friendship for Mme. 
 
 H , who was her senior and more beautiful. 
 
 This friendship seemed more precious to my 
 love when all others had spurned her. Affec- 
 tionate letters were exchanged at brief inter- 
 vals between Paris and Weimar. I say affection-
 
 2 20 TJic Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 ate, monsieur, not confidential; it \va3 not in my 
 love's nature to be communicative. Never did 
 she tell her sister of what passed between us. 
 So reticent was she, in fact, that she did not even 
 inform her of her accident. When it happened 
 and I had to write for her, I was instructed to 
 say that she w^as slightly indisposed. 
 
 " A short while ago this much-loved sister be- 
 came seriously ill. Sue wanted to see my love 
 again; and a telegram from her husband came 
 urging her to hurry to the sick woman's bedside. 
 She left at once, her departure having been de- 
 cided upon without our being able to discuss 
 the many inconveniences that might attend it, 
 and which presented themselves to my mind the 
 same evening when, returning from the railway 
 station, I for the first time in two years found 
 myself alone in this house that was filled with so 
 many thoughts." 
 
 Here M. de Sourbelles made a m.ovement of 
 unexpected sympathy. He bent towards me 
 and took my hand. 
 
 " It was at this moment that I made your ac- 
 quaintance, monsieur," he said. " The dread of 
 solitude, or rather the imperious need I felt of 
 fleeing from myself, drove me to the Crown 
 Prince Hotel where I met you. Your conversa- 
 tion did me a great deal of good; I had been so 
 long deprived of the benefits derived from asso-
 
 Jll. (it- Sourbclles Love Tragedy. 221 
 
 ciation with men ! Therefore it was not without 
 sadness, or even without shame, that I resigned 
 myself to breaking with you as I did. You must 
 have thought me singular, to say the least. But 
 now you understand, and I trust that if my con- 
 duct towards you — what shall I say ? — caused you 
 any pain or offence, you will bear me no ill- 
 will." 
 
 I pressed his hand, which he had left in mine, 
 and murmured a few words of sympathy — awk- 
 ward words, I fancy, for on occasions like this 
 one is always maladroit or does not know what 
 to say. 
 
 " Her sister's illness," continued M. de Sour- 
 belles, " having taken a favorable turn, my love 
 returned. While she had been away I had 
 written to her every day; she had replied with 
 less regularity. The reserved tone of her letters 
 occasioned me a singular inquietude. Alone in 
 silence I could feel better than in our ordinary 
 daily life what was separating us, the thoughts, 
 the bitterness, the fears she did not avow, the 
 vague danger that was hanging over us. There- 
 fore I awaited her with the presentiment that 
 her return would inaugurate a new phase in our 
 existence, and in my impatience to see her again 
 as soon as her arrival was announced there was 
 almost as much anguish as joy. Nevertheless I 
 was able to think at first that my apprehensions
 
 '>'>'> 
 
 The Sacrifice of Silence, 
 
 v-er2 unfounded. You must remember that if 
 there was no more love between us there were 
 so many othsr ties! We were so indissolubly 
 united in the desert we had created around us, 
 we belonged so completely to each other ! Sepa- 
 rated, we had felt with a new intensity the weight 
 of our solitude, having no longer the resources of 
 our union to oppose to the cruelties of our mem- 
 ories. In the gladness of the return, in the com- 
 fort w^e fait at being together once more against 
 the hostile world, we enjoyed a moment of for- 
 getfulness, almost of happiness. Alas! it was 
 but a moment! 
 
 " What had passed during her short return to 
 ordinary life ? Did she experience regrets and 
 remorse, a remorse that passion had ceased to 
 lull and that reflection had awakened ? Did she 
 suddenly suffer at being a pariah, deprived of 
 the joys and consolations and customs of the 
 world's life, condemned to play forever the com- 
 edy of love which was palling upon her, and the 
 wearisomeness of which she had perhaps never 
 taken into consideration ? Was it simply that 
 she had had the leisure to investigate the causes 
 from which we were suffering and had recoiled 
 from the abysses that she saw before her ? 
 
 " However this may be, whatever may have 
 been the motives which brought about the 
 change I soon perceived that our respective 
 positions were no longer the same. Not from 
 any precise signs, reproaches, hard words, or
 
 M. de Sourbelles Love Tragedy. 
 
 2^3 
 
 family squabbles; nothing of the kind occurred 
 between us. But our humor was undergoing a 
 transformation. After the death of love came 
 that of the sweet and tender sentiments that had 
 taken its place, of affection, of intimacy, of con- 
 fidence. The lie that was our life became com- 
 plicated. It was no longer upon a single point 
 that we were deceiving each other, but upon all 
 that passed within us, and we were reduced to a 
 continual exercise of caution to prevent our- 
 selves from manifesting the secret impatience 
 we were concealing from each other. Alas ! we 
 could not hide it. Accustomed as we were to 
 observe each other ceaselessly, to spy upon each 
 other, to divine each other, we were the one to 
 the other an open book, a book begun in intoxi- 
 cation, and each page of which as it was turned 
 disillusioned us ... . Ah ! the horror, the 
 horror, the awfulness of that last page !" 
 
 M, de Sourbelles had become calmer in the 
 course of his narrative. This is the habitual 
 result of confidences, which will ease the most 
 heavily burdened hearts. But arrived at this 
 point his painful impressions no doubt were 
 aroused again with all their torturing acuteness. 
 Seized once more with the fever of movement 
 he rose, paced to and fro with great agitation, 
 went into the next room and returned. He 
 took no further notice of me. I thought he had 
 forgotten that I was there. As I was about to 
 rise from my arm-chair, however, he reseated
 
 2 24 The Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 himself, and went on with long pauses between 
 the sentences: 
 
 " What is the use of recounting the details of 
 her last moments ? If you knew, if you could 
 know, how I adore i her then I .... I no 
 longer saw anything but the suffering of which 
 I was the cause .... I saw but death that 
 was approaching and which nothing, nothing, 
 could avert .... death which she had 
 sought .... death which ends all . ... 
 which left me alone, with the memory of her, 
 upon the desert earth. And I felt that she was 
 my flesh and my soul .... All the past 
 whirled around me .... And I sobbed at 
 her feet, I implored her pardon, I swore that I 
 loved her, I begged her not to die .... She 
 endeavored to hide her suffering, and now and 
 then tried to smile at me .... Oh 1 with 
 what a smile, in which there was such resigna- 
 tion! .... At first she had refused to take 
 any remedy; then, yielding to my prayers she 
 submitted to treatment as docilely as a child 
 . . . . She knew that all efforts to save her 
 were useless, that death was coming. 
 
 " ' It is better so I' she said, ' during a moment's 
 respite from pain. ' I am happy, I die in love I" 
 
 " She held my hand .... She did not 
 let it go . . . . We were so united, so close 
 to each other ! ... It was as in those first 
 days , , , . There remained nothing, noth-
 
 M. dc Sour belles Love Tr-agedy. 225 
 
 ing of what had spoiled our love 
 
 Death restored it to us. . . . death. . . ." 
 
 M. de Sour belles gave way to his grief for a 
 space- then rising abruptly he said: 
 
 " Come and see her!" 
 
 I followed him into the adjoining room, re- 
 dolent with the sweet, heavy perfume of the 
 mortuary flowers. He approached the bed, and 
 with a resolute gesture drew aside the veil, dis- 
 closing the dead woman. 
 
 The traces of her burns, merged as they were in 
 the uniform lividness of the face were scarcely 
 visible ; the features had recovered their beauty : 
 a beauty calm, noble, serene, that contrasted so 
 strongly with the agitation of her life, of which I 
 had just heard the story ! I know that her soul no 
 longer shone in those extinct eyes, that they could 
 not betray their secrets; but it was in vain that 
 my imagination sought to picture this noble vis- 
 age deformed by pain or by passion. 
 
 When I ceased to contemplate it, and turned 
 towards M. de Sourbelles I saw that he was 
 kneeling beside the bed and weeping.
 
 EPILOGUE. 
 
 "Well done! You are a capital story teller," 
 said Portal when he understood that Jacques 
 
 D had finished. " Only your story is not 
 
 complete. Your M. de Sourbelles, I imagine, 
 did not pass the rest of his existence weeping for 
 his mistress. What became of him afterwards ?" 
 
 " There are beings," replied Jacques, " who 
 seem to live only for a single moment, as there 
 are flowers that only bloom once. After the su- 
 preme episode which has developed their soul to 
 the limits of its power, what does it matter where 
 they elect to live or how they pass their days ? 
 
 " After the funeial of his love, as he liked to 
 call her, M. de Sourbelles quitted Weimar, and 
 went to visit that sister whom the dead woman 
 had loved. I did not expect ever to see him 
 again. I ran across him, however, last year, in 
 one of those summer resorts where most un- 
 looked for meetings often take place — at Houl- 
 gate, it was. We spent a rainy evening together 
 strolling up and down the little promenoir. The 
 plaints of the distant sea, which the low tide had 
 borne away fell faintly upon our ears, and occa- 
 sionally bursts of music from the casino orchestra 
 reached us. He told me of the ennui of his 
 [226]
 
 ilogne. 22 J 
 
 hours of idleness, of his aimless actions, of the 
 memories in his heart that swayed him from re- 
 grets to remorse without cease. ' And I do not 
 die!' he said among other things. ' One does 
 not die, one does not kill one's self, one drags on 
 with one's sorrow, one becomes accustomed to 
 one's vulture. And I am not alone of my kind, 
 believe me. There are many others like me, I 
 am sure, who come and go, eat and drink, 
 who sleep even, who do and say no mat- 
 ter what and who are tortured by invisible 
 wounds. I have met a few such, here and there. 
 They did not confide in me, nor I in them. 
 We talked politics, argued fine arts, played at 
 billiards or whist — and beneath the insignifi- 
 cance of our remarks, I felt that they were 
 brothers, yes, brothers by silence and suffering !' 
 He had aged, though not so very much, and his 
 voice sounded strangely, like a voice heard from 
 a distance. I w';s moved when I quitted him : 
 he was nothing but a poor, drifting wreck." 
 
 "Bah!" exclaimed Portal. " The next time 
 you meet him he will have been consoled. Per- 
 haps he was even then consoled, on that beach 
 at Houlgate. I have an idea that your imagina- 
 tion counts for not a little in his despair. Be- 
 sides, permit me to say that I do not see what 
 your story proves. You have told it to demon- 
 strate to us that illegitimate lovers are wrong in 
 bidding good bye to each other peaceably, once 
 their little business is discovered, and returning
 
 2 28 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 home. But I think more than ever that they are 
 a thousand times right ! Would you have it so 
 that one couldn't engage in one of these adven- 
 tiires without its ending in a tragical catastrophe 
 similar to this one, which caused you such emo- 
 tion ? No, no, I am not one of those who think 
 that death is the good sister of love. Love is an 
 exquisite thing and I don't quite see how we 
 could get along without it, whereas the other. . . 
 Brrr!" 
 
 Then turning to me he asked : 
 
 " What do you think about it, monsieur. 
 Aren't you of the same opinion ? 
 
 Jacques and I looked at each other and I re- 
 plied : 
 
 " Of course !" 
 
 Jacques understood me and added : 
 
 " Perhaps you are right after all!" 
 
 And he rose to go. 
 
 " Don't make any mistake," remarked Portal. 
 " We have done with romanticism. The best 
 thing we can do in this world, which would be a 
 dull place indeed if we didn't throw a little gaiety 
 into it, is to amuse ourselves as much as we 
 can." 
 
 " Evidently," acquiesced Jacques, who like 
 myself had concluded that it would be a waste 
 of time to discuss such questions with one whose 
 way of looking at things was so entirely different 
 from his own. 
 
 We l-sft together, my friend ^nd I. Outside I
 
 Epilogue. 229 
 
 began to discuss Portal, but he changed the con- 
 versation. As I had more than once remarked 
 when he was offended Jacques preferred to keep 
 silent. Therefore I did not insist and we walked 
 on together, each engrossed in his own thoughts. 
 We soon took leave of each other and I returned 
 horns, reflecting much upon the story Jacques 
 had told, the conversation to which it had given 
 rise, and the conclusions Portal had drawn from 
 it. And once more I felt a great pity for poor 
 mankind. Men are not bad, even in their worst 
 faults. And even if they were their immense 
 faculty for suffering would excuse in ennobling 
 them. What rancor can be held against them 
 for the wrong they have done either to that in- 
 sensible abstraction the body social or to their 
 own brethren: yea, what rancor can be held 
 against those who are their own torturers ? In 
 learning to know them we pardon, and some- 
 times pity them. 
 
 I sought to analyse the sentiments of the un- 
 happy M. de Sourbelles, whose history haunted 
 my mind: I measured the space between his up- 
 ward love-impelled flight and his fall into the 
 nothingness of extinct love; I admired his 
 patience and submission. 
 
 Then I forgot him. I thought confusedly of 
 other histories, more or less similar to his, 
 that I had become aware of, or guessed at, or 
 heard of, with the details of which I was imper- 
 fectly acquainted, the heroes of which I had
 
 230 TJie Sacrifice of Silence. 
 
 judged with severity, sometimes with malevo- 
 lence, and there recurred to me the words of the 
 poet : " If I were God, I would take pity upon 
 the heart of man." Beautiful words, of deep 
 meaning and endless repercussion ! For what a 
 wealth of sentiment, what treasures of tender- 
 ness, kindness and courage are often lost sight 
 of in what we designate as evil! What noble 
 energies are sometimes expended by two hearts 
 that seek to come together and which in break- 
 ing the numerous obstacles that separate them 
 are broken themselves ! How many ties that we 
 condemn are far better than those woven by 
 our laws! How many sacrifices made to the 
 fault of love are as pure, purer perhaps, than 
 those made to virtue ! Yet we judge, we con- 
 demn, we disdain, we hate, without knowing, 
 without understanding, proud of our codes, sure 
 of our laws. 
 
 And as I reflected upon these things I fell 
 a- dreaming for an instant of a world where, in 
 default of God, even man would take pity on the 
 heart of man. 
 
 THE END.
 
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 € 
 
 D 
 7) 
 
 (f)