Sister Eulalie, interrupting herself, said suddenly:
“These ought to be put in the grave with her;
they ought to be used as a shroud and she ought to
be buried in it.” She took another package,
on which no name was written. She began to read
in a firm voice: “My adored one, I love
you wildly. Since yesterday I have been suffering
the tortures of the damned, haunted by our memory.
I feel your lips against mine, your eyes in mine,
your breast against mine. I love you, I love
you! You have driven me mad. My arms open,
I gasp, moved by a wild desire to hold you again.
My whole soul and body cries out for you, wants you.
I have kept in my mouth the taste of your kisses—”
The judge had straightened himself up. The nun
stopped reading. He snatched the letter from
her and looked for the signature. There was none,
but only under the words, “The man who adores
you,” the name “Henry.” Their
father’s name was Rene. Therefore this was
not from him. The son then quickly rummaged through
the package of letters, took one out and read:
“I can no longer live without your caresses.”
Standing erect, severe as when sitting on the bench,
he looked unmoved at the dead woman. The nun,
straight as a statue, tears trembling in the corners
of her eyes, was watching her brother, waiting.
Then he crossed the room slowly, went to the window
and stood there, gazing out into the dark night.
When he turned around again Sister Eulalie, her eyes
dry now, was still standing near the bed, her head
bent down.
He stepped forward, quickly picked up the letters
and threw them pell-mell back into the drawer.
Then he closed the curtains of the bed.
When daylight made the candles on the table turn pale
the son slowly left his armchair, and without looking
again at the mother upon whom he had passed sentence,
severing the tie that united her to son and daughter,
he said slowly: “Let us now retire, sister.”
Meetings that are unexpected constitute the charm
of traveling. Who has not experienced the joy
of suddenly coming across a Parisian, a college friend,
or a neighbor, five hundred miles from home? Who
has not passed a night awake in one of those small,
rattling country stage-coaches, in regions where steam
is still a thing unknown, beside a strange young woman,
of whom one has caught only a glimpse in the dim light
of the lantern, as she entered the carriage in front
of a white house in some small country town?
And the next morning, when one’s head and ears
feel numb with the continuous tinkling of the bells
and the loud rattling of the windows, what a charming
sensation it is to see your pretty neighbor open her
eyes, startled, glance around her, arrange her rebellious
hair with her slender fingers, adjust her hat, feel
with sure hand whether her corset is still in place,
her waist straight, and her skirt not too wrinkled.
