If you would live, you must not only forget love but you must deny
that it exists; not only deny what there has been of good in you, but
kill all that may be good in the future; for what will you do if you
remember? Life for you would be one ceaseless regret. No, no, you must
choose between your soul and your body; you must kill one or the other.
The memory of the good drives you to the evil; make a corpse of yourself
unless you wish to become your own specter. O child, child! die while you
can! May tears be shed over thy grave!"
I threw myself on the foot of the bed in such a frightful state of
despair, that my reason fled and I no longer knew where I was or what I
was doing. Brigitte sighed.
My senses stirred within me. Was it grief or despair? I do not know.
Suddenly a horrible idea occurred to me.
"What!" I muttered, "leave that for another! Die, descend into the
ground, while that bosom heaves with the air of heaven? Just God! another
hand than mine on that fine, transparent skin! Another mouth on those
lips, another love in that heart! Brigitte happy, loving, adored, and I
in a corner of the cemetery, crumbling into dust in a ditch! How long
will it take her to forget me if I cease to exist to-morrow? How many
tears will she shed? None, perhaps! Not a friend who speaks to her but
will say that my death was a good thing. Who will not hasten to console
her, who will not urge her to forget me! If she weeps, they will seek to
distract her attention from her loss; if memory haunts her, they will
take her away; if her love for me survives me, they will seek to cure her
as though she had been poisoned; and she herself, who will perhaps at
first say that she desires to follow me, will a month later turn aside to
avoid the weeping-willow planted over my grave! How could it be
otherwise? Who as beautiful as she wastes life in idle regrets? If she
should think of dying of grief that beautiful bosom would urge her to
live, and her glass would persuade her; and the day when her exhausted
tears give place to the first smile, who will not congratulate her on her
recovery? When, after eight days of silence, she consents to hear my name
pronounced in her presence, then she will speak of it herself as though
to say: 'Console me;' then little by little she will no longer refuse to
think of the past but will speak of it, and she will open her window some
beautiful spring morning when the birds are singing in the garden; she
will become pensive and say: 'I have loved!' Who will be there at her
side? Who will dare to tell her that she must continue to love? Ah! then
I will be no more! You will listen to him, faithless one! You will blush
as does the budding rose and the blood of youth will mount to your face.
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