On the Brink of the World's End Read online

  Already, Angèle had penetrated Laurent’s thought. “If you wanted, my love, I could remain with you always; Sister Marthe would no longer reappear. You could leave here, taking me with you. No one would know. I’d depart enveloped in a big cloak, and I’d never leave you again. I’d be your slave, your thing, I’d follow you everywhere: to Paris, to Italy, to England, everywhere. Who could stop us? You wouldn’t let Sister Marthe come back, and perhaps she’d end up not being able to come back any more. There wouldn’t be anyone any longer but your Angèle. Poor Sister Marthe! She hasn’t yet pronounced her vows. It’s not for three months. She didn’t want to be a nun. Cruel events were required to force her vocation. Certainly, she suffered a great deal once, but she’s no longer suffering now. What would you like me to tell you, Laurent? She only knew her mother; she didn’t know her father—he was…the Comte de Mérande.”

  Angèle pronounced that name so quietly that Laurent could hardly hear it. “He’s dead now, and as he didn’t write anything, no one can know or prove that he’s her father. It was him who came to see her in the convent. Sister Marthe believes that he was her guardian, but he wasn’t her guardian, was he? He was her father, her true father. Promise me, my friend, that you won’t reveal that secret to Sister Marthe. It would add too much pain to the memory of her mother.”

  “I promise you that,” said Laurent.

  He was listening with an indescribable amazement. Yes, not only did Angèle read his most secret thoughts, but she was also able to know facts that no one else knew. How many times had Laurent sought in magnetized subjects for proof of lucidity? And now Angèle was providing a striking demonstration of it, effortlessly.

  In any case, Laurent was no longer thinking about lucidity or about science; he was moved to the utmost depths of his soul, Angèle’s tender voice and amorous words had cast a great disturbance into him. And then again, that small hand, leaning on him and quivering at all emotions, was like a caress, of an infinite chastity and softness. His reason escaped him.

  To leave, to flee with her…why not? What was the point of worrying about the future? The dolorous days, the regrets, the remorse would come later.

  At present, since she’s here, since she loves me, let’s not think of anything but her, and leave all the rest...

  Meanwhile, Angèle seemed to be following, with a penetrating attention, the confused thoughts that presented themselves to him. Suddenly, she extracted the conclusion therefrom.

  “Oh! Thank you! We’re leaving, we’re leaving together.”

  She headed for the door. But already, Laurent had got a grip on himself again, entirely.

  No, that’s impossible. Leave with Sister Marthe! What would they say in Plancheuille? What would the General say? Who could tell whether a tribunal wouldn’t see it as an illicit seduction?

  Laurent shivered in terror. The gendarmes, the court of assizes, are enough to make the bravest man tremble.

  No decidedly, it’s impossible. There are certain follies it isn’t permissible to commit.

  He stood up and took Angèle by the hand. “I don’t want that,” he said, gazing at hr fixedly.

  She tried to get away and turned her head away, but he spoke to her forcefully.

  “Remember this, Angèle. It’s necessary that she be cured, and she will be cured.”

  Then, without giving her time to respond, he blew lightly on her forehead. She uttered a slight sigh.

  Sister Marthe had returned.

  “Thank you, Monsieur,” she said. “Tomorrow, I’ll play the Stabat that you’ve taught me.”

  VIII

  Laurent spent a night even more agitated than the previous one, but this time, insomnia inspired him with wisdom. The idea of the court of assizes, which, until then, had scarcely occurred to him, had taken on proportions that frightened him. There was much talk then, in the newspapers and in the tribunals, of seduction by hypnotism. Now, if he were to run away with Angèle, he would not be able to prove that hypnotism was not the cause of it. That pious and charitable nun, leaving with him after having seen him twice, could only be explained by a crime. All the severity of the law would fall upon him. He would be annihilated under the weight of the enormous scandal.

  Thus, it’s necessary to renounce all these follies, to leave, to leave Angèle and flee, far, far away.

  Yes, it’s necessary to forget everything. Everything can be forgotten, for nothing has happened that is irreparable. Today, his thoughts are full of Angèle, but in a few days, in a few months, at the most, Angèle will be no more to him than a vague memory. It’s necessary that this romantic adventure, sketched in a chapel, ends there. Nothing will remain of that delicious and fugitive apparition than a charming distant memory, such as young men ought to have in order to enchant the somber hours of their old age.

  Unfortunately, he could not leave that day. A large hunting-party had been arranged. They were to go to the woods of Serpes, ten kilometers from Plancheuille. It was there that they hoped to find a capercaillie, that myth of hunters.

  Laurent did not want to cause the General and his friend any pain by leaving. In any case, there was no inconvenience in staying for one more day; they would not return to Plancheuille until eight o’clock in the evening, which would render any meeting with Sister Marthe impossible. That night would therefore be the last spent at the château. At six o’clock the following morning, a carriage would take him to Moulins.

  He would be in Paris the same day, and once in Paris, no more organ, no more Sister Marthe, no more romance. Active life would take hold of him again without division. Adieu these crazy chimeras and absurd adventures, for which he already felt that he was too old.

  The day was as it should be, like any other hunting party. Laurent tried to amuse himself, and he did, in fact, seem quite joyful. But whatever ardor he tried to put into the pursuit of game, he could not take an interest in the pheasants that flew up in front of him or the capercaillies that were heard calling in the distance. No, he was elsewhere; he saw Angèle again; he heard her charming voice...

  Finished, all that is finished! He will never see that adorable creature again; never again will he hear that harmonious voice, which invokes in him all the sweetness of amour.

  I appeal to all those who are capable of thought. Is there anything more dolorous than an eternal rupture with that which has existed, the irremediably and definitive adieu to someone who will never be seen again? And yet, alas, is our existence anything else? What is living, if not a perpetual series of irreparable adieux?

  Laurent, however, applauded his own resolution, and it was with a great relief that he saw the sun progress toward the horizon, decline and then descend, and finally attain the limit of the hills. Six o’clock! Dusk was already falling. He would not be at Plancheuille until eight o’clock, in darkness, and the following morning, on the way to Paris. Paris! Paris! That was his safeguard at present.

  When Laurent told his hosts that he wanted to depart so soon, they pressed him to stay. He was inflexible—but he promised to return.

  “So be it,” said the General. “I’ll take note of your promise; you’re giving me pain, but after all…tomorrow morning, at six o’clock, since you insist, the carriage will be ready and will take you to Moulins. Embrace me, my friend, and à bientôt!”

  Laurent returned to his room. Before going to sleep, he darted a last glance over the park and opened the window wide. The silence was solemn. Then an immense sadness invaded him.

  What! He will not see her again, that Angèle, whose heart has beaten so close to his own! To what vain idols is he sacrificing so much love? Who will be grateful to him for that abnegation, that heroism of virtue? Is it really abnegation? And is that virtue not the mask of cowardice?

  Suddenly, on the path, he thought he perceived a white form heading toward the château. A great frisson shook him from head to toe. A hallucination, perhaps an apparition! He threw himself backwards, not daring to look at the phantom; he was afraid, and h
is heart was beating with so much force that he could hear its tumultuous vibrations striking the walls of his pulmonary cavity.

  Soon, mastering his fear, he approached the window and, leaning against the wall, looked out, leaning slightly forward, as if plunging his gaze into the abyss.

  Yes, it was really Angèle; the gravel crackling under her feel was audible.

  No apparition has that clarity of image. No, it isn’t an apparition, for Laurent senses all his intelligence, and the full possession of himself.

  She is not wearing her nun’s head-dress. Her beautiful hair, which tongs have not yet curled, is thrown backwards. A white dress envelops her, and over that white dress, a long, thick mantle like those the local shepherds wear, trailing on the ground.

  Without hesitation, Angèle heads for Laurent’s window.

  “Laurent,” she says, in a low voice, “it’s me—don’t be afraid.”

  “You, Angèle, you!”

  Her eyes are closed, but she is walking with assurance, as if she were able to distinguish all the objects around her.

  “Well, yes, it’s me. You didn’t want to come to the chapel today? So, you see, it’s me who is coming to you. Give me your hand to help me come up. Someone might see me, and you’ll understand that I don’t want to be seen.”

  “What imprudence!” Laurent murmured. Nevertheless, he gave her his hand. Then, lightly, Angèle leapt into the room, scarcely leaning on Laurent’s arm.

  “It’s cold,” she said, pressing herself against him. “Warm me up a little” And before he could defend himself, she was next to him, shivering all over.

  She laid her head gently on the young man’s breast.

  “Isn’t it as well that I came?” she said. “You intended to leave…without bidding me adieu, ingrate! As soon as you opened the window, I saw you. The other, the nun, was fast asleep. Then I got up, without making a sound. Everything was silent. In haste, I put on a dress and this mantle. In our house, the doors aren’t locked, so I was able to get out without difficulty. No one is in the streets of the village at midnight, and besides, who would have recognized me? At any rate, no one saw or heard me. I’m close to you now, and I’m very happy.”

  “What imprudence!” Laurent repeated. “What imprudence!”

  Angèle’s head was resting on his bosom, and, involuntarily, intoxicated by amour, he covered her forehead and her hair with burning kisses. She smiled, and allowed herself to be kissed.

  “You were there, at the window, and you called to me. I wouldn’t have come if you hadn’t called me. But you said to me: ‘Come!’ Oh, I heard you; I understood; here I am.”

  “No,” said Laurent, “I didn’t call to you. No!” And he tried to push her away. But she took his hands, obstinately, and clung on to him.

  “I beg you,” she said, in an imploring tone, “I beg you, Laurent, don’t be nasty to me. Alas, I’m neither as beautiful nor as seductive as the women you’ve loved, but I love you so much! Remember that you’re everything to me: my master, my king, my god. Laurent, for pity’s sake, love me!”

  Certainly, Laurent was aware of the full extent of his power over Angèle. He knew that with his powerful hand he could evoke images in her soul, gentle or bloody, terrifying or pleasant; wake her up or plunge her into a profound lethargy; perhaps even—who knows?—make her forget everything; change that love into hatred. That charming being who had come to him, almost without being summoned, was under his absolute dependence: a phantom that, with a word or a sign, he could compel to return to oblivion. But he did not resign himself to that dolorous sacrifice.

  The cold air of autumn nights penetrated into the room; he shivered, and he closed the widow, because he felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. Then he lit a candle, whose vacillating light cast a pale and fantastic glare over Angèle.

  Standing with her back against the mantelpiece, he listened to Angèle without replying, without even thinking. He felt devoid of courage. Yes, this was true love, absolute love, the only one that merits being lived. He had never been loved with that self-abandonment, with that limitless tenderness. Who can tell whether that is not the key to the great mystery? The priests of Isis, the dervishes of Tibet and the savants of Europe were unable to clarify it because they did not have that which alone can work miracles: the annihilation of the will in amour.

  And then, all his youth quivered within him. The amorous fever had taken hold. That adorable and chaste young woman who was delivering herself to him, pressing herself against his breast, wrapping her delicate arms around him, in his room, in the midst of the silence of the night…what a redoubtable temptation! He dared not surrender to it, nor resist...

  He did resist, albeit telling himself that the very resistance was perhaps the worst of follies.

  As for her, she seemed happy, and she smiled.

  “You see, Laurent, how easy it will be. I’ll depart on foot for Moulins. I’ll walk all night; I’ll still arrive at the station before you. You take the carriage and we meet out there, in Moulins. With my mantle and a veil over my head, no one will recognize Sister Marthe. Then, we’ll depart for Paris together. Do you understand? Together! And we won’t be separated again. How lovely, isn’t it? To leave with you, not to be separated from you again, never to be separated…to love one another without remorse, without fear. Oh, I can see what you’re thinking. You’re afraid that someone might hear noises in our room—but out there, in Paris, we’ll have nothing to fear.

  “For a few days here, people will occupy themselves with Sister Marthe. They’ll try to discover what has become of her, but they won’t find any trace of her. And then they’ll no longer think about her. Sister Marthe will have disappeared. Who, in any case, is interested in Sister Marthe? My name isn’t Sister Marthe, I’m Angèle de Mérande. My father was the Comte de Mérande, and I’m his heir, for he’s left me all his fortune. There’s a testament, I know, although that testament hasn’t been found. Oh, if I wanted to be, I could be rich. Perhaps I’ll tell you one day where my father hid that testament...

  “But what do riches matter to me? What does my birth matter? I only want your love, Laurent. Yes, I want your love, all of your love. I want you to give it to me entirely, just as I’m giving everything, body and soul, to you. I want to be your Angèle, as you’ll be my Laurent. Everything, everything for you! You don’t know what I can do, but, oh, my love, you’ll see what I can do for you, and because of you. I’ll unveil secrets to you, unknown to humans, to feeble humans. I’ll teach you how, sometimes, the veils of the future will be torn apart for us. I’ll show you how, in the rapid lightning-flashes that illuminate the soul, time and space no longer exist for us. Yes, because of me, Laurent, because of me, you’ll have knowledge; I promise you that, my love. People will put themselves at your knees; amazed men will adore you almost like a god. And I’ll do that to please you; I’ll be at your orders, to render you powerful, because all that science is irrelevant to me, and I don’t want anything except your tenderness.”

  Without saying anything, Laurent gently pushed Angèle away, as she was offering him her forehead. He no longer knew what he was going to do, and he was half-vanquished, half lost, when suddenly, in the silence, he heard the chiming of an old clock.

  “Shh!” said Angèle, putting a finger over his lips. And she counted: “One, two, three. Three o’clock; three o’clock already. I have to go.”

  And abruptly, she opened the window.

  “Go! Go where?” exclaimed Laurent.

  “To Moulins, where you’ll come to join me shortly.”

  “No,” he said, forcefully, “no! You shan’t go. And since that’s the way it is, let it be finished forever, finished forever.”

  Then, with an abrupt gesture, he extended his hand over Angèle’s forehead. She tottered, uttered a faint cry, and fell backwards. Laurent was only able to retain her partially in his arms.

  Suddenly, the scene had changed. Angèle was lying on the floor, almost inanimate, as pale as a
corpse, in the frightful inertia of a cadaver.

  Laurent placed his hand on Angèle’s breast; the heart was still beating, slowly, slowly and faintly.

  “Lethargy,” he murmured.

  He knew that in spite of that immobility, Angèle, in that profound lethargy, could still hear and understand him.

  He got down on his knees on the floor and, taking Angèle’s cold hand between his, he spoke to her in a low voice, so close to her that his lips were almost touching the young woman’s pale cheeks.

  “Angèle, listen to me carefully. This is my formal will; I want it to be accomplished. It’s necessary that Sister Marthe be cured. Sister Marthe cured: I want that. In six months, it’s necessary that no trace of her malady remains. And as for you, Angèle, you who have given me your tender and sweet love, know that I love you, that I adore you...

  “Whatever happens to me in future, everything in my life will pale by comparison with the unforgettable hour in which we have loved one another. Yes, my Angèle, I’m weeping because it is my entire youth, my entire life that is going away with you...

  “Listen to me again, Angèle, for you can hear me, I know; your chaste and loving soul understands me. Although your lips are pale and cold, although the regular alternation of your breath and the slow beating of your heart betray no emotion, you can hear me Angèle. Well, I don’t want, I don’t want you to come back. Your memory will live in my heart, but never, understand me well, Angèle, never come back again. You will not respond to any appeal, from me or from anyone else. Nothing will be able make you come back. I want that, and I know that that solemn order will be carried out...

  “And now, adieu, adieu forever, dear soul that I adore, adieu!”

  She was still lying on the floor, immobile. He leaned over, and kissed her forehead.

  Then he tried to wake her up. It was not without dread, that moment of awakening. What would Sister Marthe say when she found herself here? How could he make her understand that a mysterious force had made her get out of bed to bring her here, into this room, in the middle of the night, alone with Laurent? What stupor! What terror! What shame, perhaps!