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Updated: June 24, 2025
Thus spoke Desgenais; and the shadows of night began to fall. The following morning I rode through the Bois de Boulogne; the weather was dark and threatening. At the Porte Maillot I dropped the reins on my horse's back and abandoned myself to revery, revolving in my mind the words spoken by Desgenais the evening before. Suddenly I heard my name called.
But after all," I thought, "my senses have spoken, but not my heart." Thus I tried to calm myself. A few minutes later Desgenais tapped me on the shoulder. "We shall go to supper at once," said he. "You will give your arm to Marco." "Listen," I said; "I hardly know what I am experiencing.
When Desgenais left me I became so desperate that I resolved to put an end to my trouble. After a terrible struggle, horror got the better of love. I wrote my mistress that I would never see her again, and begged her not to try to see me unless she wished to be exposed to the shame of being refused admittance. I called a servant and ordered him to deliver the letter at once.
It had been raining, and a light odor came from the garden. "What shall we do this spring?" I asked. "I do not care to travel." "I shall do what I did last year," replied Desgenais. "I shall go to the country when the time comes." "What!" I replied. "Do you do the same thing every year? Are you going to begin life over again this year?" "What would you expect me to do?"
Then an incident occurred which made a deep impression on me. Desgenais had with him a very beautiful woman who loved him much. One evening as I was walking with him I told him that I considered her admirable, as much on account of her attachment for him as because of her beauty. In short, I praised her highly and with warmth, giving him to understand that he ought to be happy. He made no reply.
I was not rich enough to help her; Desgenais, at my request, interested himself in the poor creature; he made her learn over again all of which she had a slight knowledge. But she could make no appreciable progress. When her teacher left her she would fold her arms and for hours look silently across the public square. What days! What misery!
"What would I expect you to do?" I cried, jumping to my feet. "That is just like you. Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tire of this sort of life?" "No," he replied. I was standing before an engraving of the Magdalen in the desert. Involuntarily I joined my hands. "What are you doing?" asked Desgenais.
Ah! Desgenais, how all this wearies me! Do you never tire of this sort of life?" "No," he replied. I was standing before an engraving of the Madeleine. Involuntarily I joined my hands. "What are you doing?" asked Desgenais. "If I were an artist," I replied, "and wished to represent Melancholy, I would not paint a dreamy girl with a book in her hands."
As she spoke she extended her hand. "Silence!" I said, "sleep, and leave me to myself." She turned over and went to sleep. I looked at her for some time to assure myself that she would not hear me, and then quietly left the house. One evening I was seated before the fire with Desgenais. The window was open; it was one of the early days in March, a harbinger of spring.
Two beings who love, who embrace, and who are not thou and I! Is such a thing possible? Are you a fool?" "Coward!" said Desgenais, "when will you forget that woman? Is she such a great loss? Take the first comer and console yourself." "No," I replied, "it is not such a great loss. Have I not done what I ought? Have I not driven her away from here? What have you to say to that?
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