The Confession of a Child of the CenturyMusset, Alfred de
General
The Confession of a Child of the Century
Musset, Alfred de
French fiction; Historical fiction
As I did not know his address, I asked Brigitte for it, pretending that I
felt under obligations to call on him after all the visits he had made
us; I had not said a word about my experience at the Opera. Brigitte's
eyes betrayed signs of tears. When I entered her room she held out her
hand, and said:
"What do you wish?"
Her voice was sad but tender. We exchanged a few kind words and I set out
less unhappy.
The name of the young man I was going to see was Smith; he was living
near by. When I knocked at his door, I experienced a strange sensation of
uneasiness; I was dazed, as though by a sudden flash of light. His first
gesture froze my blood. He was in bed, and with the same accent Brigitte
had employed, with a face as pale and haggard as hers, he held out his
hand and said:
"What do you wish?"
Say what you please, there are things in a man's life which the reason
can not explain. I sat still, as though awakened from a dream, and began
to repeat his questions. Why, in fact, had I come to see him? How could I
tell him what had brought me there? Even if he had anything to tell me,
how did I know he would speak? He had brought letters from N-----, and
knew those who had written them. But it cost me an effort to question
him, and I feared he would suspect what was in my mind. Our first words
were polite and insignificant. I thanked him for his kindness in bringing
letters to Madame Pierson; I told him that upon leaving France we would
ask him to do the same favor for us; and then we were silent, surprised
to find ourselves vis-a-vis.
I looked about me in embarrassment. His room was on the fourth floor;
everything indicated honest and industrious poverty. Some books, musical
instruments, papers, a table and a few chairs, that was all, but
everything was well cared for and presented an agreeable ensemble.
As for him, his frank and animated face predisposed me in his favor. On
the mantel, I observed a picture of an old lady. I stepped up to look at
it, and he said it was his mother.
I then recalled that Brigitte had often spoken of him; she had known him
since childhood. Before I came to the country, she used to see him
occasionally at N-----, but at the time of her last visit there he was
away. It was, therefore, only by chance that I had learned some
particulars of his life, which now came to mind. He had an honest
employment that enabled him to support his sister and mother.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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