The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 3 — John Shaqi
The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 3Musset, Alfred de
General
The Confession of a Child of the Century — Volume 3
Musset, Alfred de
France -- Fiction; French fiction -- Translations into English; Historical fiction
Brigitte looked at me without saying a word. During the two succeeding
days she treated me with a coldness that had something of contempt in it,
and I saw that she treated Smith with more deference and kindness than
usual. She called him Henri and smiled on him sweetly.
"I feel that the air would do me good," she said after dinner; "shall we
go to the opera, Octave? I would enjoy walking that far."
"No, I will stay here; go without me." She took Smith's arm and went
out. I remained alone all evening; I had paper before me, and was trying
to collect my thoughts in order to write, but in vain.
As a lonely lover draws from his bosom a letter from his mistress, and
loses himself in delightful revery, thus I shut myself up in solitude and
yielded to the sweet allurement of doubt. Before me were the two empty
seats which Brigitte and Smith had just occupied; I scrutinized them
anxiously as if they could tell me something. I revolved in my mind all
the things I had heard and seen; from time to time I went to the door and
cast my eyes over our trunks which had been piled against the wall for a
month; I opened them and examined the contents so carefully packed away
by those delicate little hands; I listened to the sound of passing
carriages; the slightest noise made me tremble. I spread out on the
table our map of Europe, and there, in the very presence of all my hopes,
in that room where I had conceived and had so nearly realized them, I
abandoned myself to the most frightful presentiments.
But, strange as it may seem, I felt neither anger nor jealousy, but a
terrible sense of sorrow and foreboding. I did not suspect, and yet I
doubted. The mind of man is so strangely formed that, with what he sees
and in spite of what he sees, he can conjure up a hundred objects of woe.
In truth his brain resembles the dungeons of the Inquisition, where the
walls are covered with so many instruments of torture that one is dazed,
and asks whether these horrible contrivances he sees before him are
pincers or playthings. Tell me, I say, what difference is there in
saying to my mistress: "All women deceive," or, "You deceive me?"
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