My elder sons never loved me, never petted me, scarcely
treated me as a mother, but during my whole life I
did my duty towards them, and I owe them nothing more
after my death. The ties of blood cannot exist
without daily and constant affection. An ungrateful
son is less than, a stranger; he is a culprit, for
he has no right to be indifferent towards his mother.
I held my tongue, and thought over those words.
Oh, ethics! Oh, logic! Oh, wisdom!
At his age! So they deprived him of his only
remaining pleasure out of regard for his health!
His health! What would he do with it, inert
and trembling wreck that he was? They were taking
care of his life, so they said. His life?
How many days? Ten, twenty, fifty, or a hundred?
Why? For his own sake? Or to preserve
for some time longer the spectacle of his impotent
greediness in the family.
But all at once one envelope made me start.
My name was traced on it in a large, bold handwriting;
and suddenly tears came to my eyes. That letter
was from my dearest friend, the companion of my youth,
the confidant of my hopes; and he appeared before
me so clearly, with his pleasant smile and his hand
outstretched, that a cold shiver ran down my back.
Yes, yes, the dead come back, for I saw him!
Our memory is a more perfect world than the universe:
it gives back life to those who no longer exist.
But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal
scenes which make a peaceable man dread the domestic
hearth more than a battlefield where bullets are raining.
Monsieur Saval, who was called in Mantes “Father
Saval,” had just risen from bed. He was
weeping. It was a dull autumn day; the leaves
were falling. They fell slowly in the rain,
like a heavier and slower rain. M. Saval was
not in good spirits. He walked from the fireplace
to the window, and from the window to the fireplace.
Life has its sombre days. It would no longer
have any but sombre days for him, for he had reached
the age of sixty-two. He is alone, an old bachelor,
with nobody about him. How sad it is to die
alone, all alone, without any one who is devoted to
you!
He pondered over his life, so barren, so empty.
He recalled former days, the days of his childhood,
the home, the house of his parents; his college days,
his follies; the time he studied law in Paris, his
father’s illness, his death. He then returned
to live with his mother. They lived together
very quietly, and desired nothing more. At last
the mother died. How sad life is! He lived
alone since then, and now, in his turn, he, too, will
soon be dead. He will disappear, and that will
be the end. There will be no more of Paul Saval
upon the earth. What a frightful thing!
Other people will love, will laugh. Yes, people
will go on amusing themselves, and he will no longer
exist! Is it not strange that people can laugh,
amuse themselves, be joyful under that eternal certainty
of death? If this death were only probable, one
could then have hope; but no, it is inevitable, as
inevitable as that night follows the day.
