But while my vanity was thus occupied, my heart was suffering, so that
there was always within me a man who laughed and a man who wept. It was a
perpetual counter-stroke between my head and my heart. My own mockeries
frequently caused me great pain and my deepest sorrows aroused a desire
to burst into laughter.
One day a man boasted of being proof against superstitious fears, in
fact, fear of every kind; his friends put a human skeleton in his bed and
then concealed themselves in an adjoining room to wait for his return.
They did not hear any noise, but in the morning they found him dressed
and sitting on the bed playing with the bones; he had lost his reason.
There would be in me something that resembled that man but for the fact
that my favorite bones were those of a well-beloved skeleton; they were
the debris of my love, all that remained of the past.
But it must not be supposed that there were no good moments in all this
disorder. Among Desgenais's companions were several young men of
distinction, a number of artists. We sometimes passed together delightful
evenings under pretext of being libertines. One of them was infatuated
with a beautiful singer who charmed us with her fresh and melancholy
voice. How many times we sat listening while supper was served and
waiting! How many times, when the flagons had been emptied, one of us
held a volume of Lamartine and read in a voice choked by emotion! Every
other thought disappeared.
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