“Yes, I suddenly saw again all my mother’s
old gowns, the different styles which she adopted
and the several ways in which she dressed her hair.
She haunted me especially in a silk dress, trimmed
with old lace; and I remembered something she said
one day when she was wearing this dress. She
said: ’Robert, my child, if you do not stand
up straight you will be round-shouldered all your
life.’
“Then, opening another drawer, I found myself
face to face with memories of tender passions:
a dancing-pump, a torn handkerchief, even a garter,
locks of hair and dried flowers. Then the sweet
romances of my life, whose living heroines are now
white-haired, plunged me into the deep melancholy
of things. Oh, the young brows where blond locks
curl, the caress of the hands, the glance which speaks,
the hearts which beat, that smile which promises the
lips, those lips which promise the embrace! And
the first kiss-that endless kiss which makes you close
your eyes, which drowns all thought in the immeasurable
joy of approaching possession!
“Taking these old pledges of former love in
both my hands, I covered them with furious caresses,
and in my soul, torn by these memories, I saw them
each again at the hour of surrender; and I suffered
a torture more cruel than all the tortures invented
in all the fables about hell.
“One last letter remained. It was written
by me and dictated fifty years ago by my writing teacher.
Here it is:
“’Mydearlittlemamma:
“’I am seven years old
to-day. It is the age of reason. I take
advantage of it to thank you for
having brought me into this world.
“’Your little son, who
loves you
“‘Robert.’
“It is all over. I had gone back to the
beginning, and suddenly I turned my glance on what
remained to me of life. I saw hideous and lonely
old age, and approaching infirmities, and everything
over and gone. And nobody near me!
“My revolver is here, on the table. I am
loading it . . . . Never reread your old letters!”
And that is how many men come to kill themselves;
and we search in vain to discover some great sorrow
in their lives.
AN ARTIFICE
The old doctor sat by the fireside, talking to his
fair patient who was lying on the lounge. There
was nothing much the matter with her, except that
she had one of those little feminine ailments from
which pretty women frequently suffer—slight
anaemia, a nervous attack, etc.
“No, doctor,” she said; “I shall
never be able to understand a woman deceiving her
husband. Even allowing that she does not love
him, that she pays no heed to her vows and promises,
how can she give herself to another man? How
can she conceal the intrigue from other people’s
eyes? How can it be possible to love amid lies
and treason?”
The doctor smiled, and replied: “It is
perfectly easy, and I can assure you that a woman
does not think of all those little subtle details when
she has made up her mind to go astray.
