Octave Mirbeau Archive
Written: 1886.
Source: Text from RevoltLib.com.
Transcription/Markup: Andy Carloff
Online Source: RevoltLib.com; 2021
My properties, the Priory itself, the old familiar house mortgaged several times, were sold!... Ah! the sad journey which I made on that occasion!... It was a long time since I had been to Saint-Michel! And yet in my hours of disgust and weariness, in the evil excitement of Paris, the thought of this peaceful little place was sweet and calming. The pure wafts of air which came to me from there had a refreshing effect upon my congested brains, they soothed my heart burned by the corrosive acids which are carried along by the infected air of cities, and I often promised myself that whenever I got tired of always chasing dreams, I would seek refuge there amid the peace and serenity of native objects.... Saint-Michel!... Never was the place so dear to me as after I had left it; it seemed to me that it contained riches and beauty such as I had never known how to enjoy and which I now suddenly discovered ... I loved to direct my memories there, best of all I loved to recall the forest, the beautiful forest where, as a restless, dreamy child, I had lost my way so many times.... Inhaling with keen delight the aroma of the rich sap of trees, the ear enchanted by the harmonies of the wind which caused the underwood and forest trees to vibrate like harps and violin cellos, I lost myself in the large alleys overhung with trembling foliage, large, straight alleys which far, far away ended abruptly and opened up like a church bay upon the light of a pane of sky, arched and luminous....
In these dreams I saw the branches of oak trees reach out their foliage greener than ever, happy to find me again; young staddles greeted me with a joyous rustle as I passed by; they seemed to say to me: “Look how big we grew, how smooth and strong our trunks are, how good the air in which we spread out our slender, swaying boughs, how bountiful the soil in which we sink our roots always full of life—-giving sap.” The moss and peat mold called me: “We have prepared a nice bed for you, little fellow, a nice fragrant little bed such as you won’t find in the miserably gilded houses of the big cities.... Stretch yourself out, roll on it if you are too warm, the fern will sway its gentle fans over your head, the beech trees will spread their branches open to let through a sunbeam which will gladden your heart.” Alas! ever since I fell in love with Juliette—these voices have gradually become silent. These memories no longer came back like guardian angels to lull me to sleep and to gently stir their white wings in the agitated azure of my dreams!... My past had become estranged from me, ashamed of me!...
The train sped on; it had cleared the plains of Beauce, even more melancholy to look at than in the grim days of the war.... And I recognized the small, humpy fields, their hedges of brushwood, the scattered apple trees, the narrow valleys, the poplars with their tops bent in the shape of hoods, which in the fields resembled a strange procession of blue penitents, the farms with high mossgrown roofs, highways deep cut and rough, bordered with girdled trees, which slanted down in the midst of sturdy verdure, the woods down yonder, black against the setting sun.... It was getting dark when I arrived at Saint-Michel. I liked it better so.... To cross the streets in full daylight, under the gaze of all these excellent people who had known me as a child, would have been too painful for me.... It seemed to me that I was laden with so much shame that they would turn away from me with horror as from a mangy dog.... I quickened my pace, rolling up the collar of my overcoat.... The grocery owner, named Madame Henriette, who in the past used to stuff me with cake, was standing in front of her store and talking to her neighbors.... I was afraid they might be talking about me and, leaving the sidewalk I took to the roadway.... Fortunately a cart passed by, the noise of which drowned the words of these women: The Presbytery ... the Convent of the Sisters ... the church ... the Priory!... At this hour the Priory was nothing but a huge black mass in the sky.... My heart failed me.... I had to lean against one of the posts of the gate to catch my breath.... A few steps away the forest murmured, its dull voice growing in amplitude, angry, like the raging roar of breakers....
Marie and Felix were waiting for me.... Marie older and more wrinkled, Felix, more stooping and shaking his head more than ever....
“Ah! Monsieur Jean!... Monsieur Jean!...” And forthwith taking possession of my valise, Marie said:
“You ought to be pretty hungry by this time, Monsieur Jean!... I have some soup for you, the kind you used to like, and then I have put a nice chicken on the spit.”
“Thank you!” I said. “I shall not dine.”
I would have liked to embrace both of them, to open my arms for them, to cry upon their old, parched faces.... And instead! my voice was harsh, trenchant. I uttered “I shall not dine” in the manner of a threat. They looked at me somewhat frightened, but never stopped repeating:
“Ah! Monsieur Jean!... It has been such a long time!... Ah! Monsieur Jean!... What a handsome young man you are!...”
Then Marie, thinking that she would gain my interest thereby, began telling me the news of the place:
“That poor Monsieur the curé is dead, you know. The new one in his place don’t seem to be getting ahead at all, he is too young and anxious.... Baptiste has been crushed to death by a tree.”
I interrupted her:
“All right, all right, Marie.... You’ll tell me about it tomorrow.”
She took me to my bedroom and asked:
“Shall I bring you a bowl of milk, Monsieur Jean?”
“If you please!”
And closing the door, I flung myself on the lounge and sobbed for a long, long time.
The next day I got up at dawn.... The Priory had not changed much: there was only more grass in the alleys, more moss on the steps, and a few trees were dead. Again I saw the gate, the scurfy lawn, the puny looking sorbs, the aged chestnut trees. Again I saw the basin where the little kitten had been shot, the curtain of fir trees which hid the commons from view, the abandoned study; I saw the park, its twisted trees and stone benches that looked like ancient tombs.... In the kitchen garden Felix was digging a border bed for flowers.... Ah! poor man, how battered his frame was!
He showed me a hawthorn and said:
“That is where you used to come with your poor deceased father to lie in wait for the blackbirds.... Do you remember, Monsieur Jean?”
“Yes, yes, Felix!”
“And also the thrush?”
“Yes, yes, Felix!”
I walked away. I could not bear the sight of this old man any longer, this man who thought he was going to live to the end of his days at the Priory and whom I was about to drive out ... and where was he to go?... He had served us faithfully, he was almost one of our family, poor, unable to gain a livelihood otherwise. And I was going to chase him out!... Ah! How could I bring myself to do that?
At breakfast Marie seemed nervous. She walked around my chair, unusually excited.
“Beg pardon!” she said to me at last, “I must clear up all my doubts about this matter.... Is it true that you are selling the Priory?...”
“Yes, Marie.”
The old woman opened wide her eyes, stupefied, and, placing her hands on the table, repeated:
“You are selling the Priory?”
“Yes, Marie.”
“The Priory where all your family was born?... The Priory where your father and your mother died?... The Priory, Holy Jesus!”
“Yes, Marie.”
She recoiled as if frightened.
“Then you are a wicked son, Monsieur Jean!”
I made no reply. Marie left the dining room and did not speak to me any more.
Two days later, my business having been attended to, the deed signed, I left.... My money was hardly enough to last me a month.... I was done for! Overwhelming debts, ignoble debts was all that was left to me!... Ah! if the train could only carry me on and on, always further on, never to arrive anywhere!... It was only in Paris that I reminded myself that I had not even gone to kneel down at the grave of my father and mother.
Juliette received me tenderly. She embraced me passionately.
“Ah! dear, dear!... I thought you would never come back!... Five days, just think of it!... Next time if you have to go again I want to go with you.”
She appeared so affectionate, so truly moved, her caresses gave me such confidence, and then the burden on my soul was so heavy, that I did not hesitate to tell her everything. I took her in my arms and put her on my lap.
“Listen to me, my Juliette,” I said to her, “listen to me!... I am lost ... ruined ... ruined ... do you hear, ruined!... We have only four thousand francs left!...”
“Poor boy!” Juliette sighed while placing her head on my shoulder, “poor boy!...”
I burst out sobbing, and cried out:
“You understand now that I must leave you.... And I am going to die if I do!”
“Come now, you are silly to talk that way.... Do you believe I could live without you, my dear?... Come now, don’t cry, don’t grieve so much....”
She dried the tears from my eyes and continued in her voice which grew sweeter with every word.
“First of all we have four thousand francs.... We can live four months on that.... During these four months you’ll work.... Let us see if you can’t write a good novel in four months!... But don’t cry, because if you cry, I won’t tell you a great secret ... a great, great secret.... Do you know what your little wifie did, who little suspected that herself—do you know?... Well, for three days she went to the riding school, she took lessons in horsemanship—and next year when she is well trained, Franconi will engage her.... Do you know what a woman rider in a fashionable riding school makes.... Two thousand, three thousand francs a month!... You see now, there isn’t much to grieve over, my poor little boy!”
All nonsense, all folly seemed logical to me. I clung to it desperately as a shipwrecked sailor clings to the insecure wreckage tossed by the waves. Provided it kept me afloat for an instant, I did not care toward what dangerous reefs, toward what blacker depths it swept me on. I also cleaved to that absurd hope of one doomed to perish, which even on the slaughter stake, which even under the knife, still expects the impossible to happen: a sudden change, an earthly catastrophe which will deliver him from death. I permitted myself to be deluded by the pretty purring of Juliette’s words! A firm resolve to work heroically filled my spirit and threw me into raptures.... I had visions of multitudes of people bending breathlessly over my books, of theaters where grave and painted men were coming forward and uttering my name to the boundless enthusiasm of the audience. Overcome with fatigue, worn out with emotion, I fell asleep.
We finished dinner. Juliette was even more affectionate than at the time when I came back. Nevertheless, I noticed a sort of uneasiness, a preoccupied air in her. She was sad and gay at one and the same time: What was going on behind this forehead over which clouds were passing? Did she decide to leave me, in spite of all her protestations, and did she want to make our separation easier by lavishing on me all the treasures of her caresses?
“How annoying, my dear!” she said, “I have to go out.”
“What do you mean, you have to go out? Now?”
“Why yes, just think of it. That poor Gabrielle is very ill. She is alone—I have promised to come to see her! Oh! but I won’t stay very long.... About an hour....”
Juliette spoke very naturally. But I don’t know why, it seemed to me that she was lying, that she was not going to Gabrielle at all. And suspicion, vague, terrifying suspicion pierced my heart. I said to her:
“Can’t you wait till tomorrow?”
“Oh, that’s impossible! Don’t you understand, I have promised.”
“Please, do me a favor! Go tomorrow....”
“That’s impossible! Poor Gabrielle!”
“All right!... I’ll go with you.... I’ll wait for you at the door!...”
Cunningly I studied her.... Her face was motionless.... No, really her muscles did not betray the least surprise. She answered gently:
“There is no sense in that!... You are tired.... Go to bed!...”
And forthwith I saw the train of her gown stream behind the drawn door curtain like a snake.... Juliette is in her dressing room.... And with eyes fixed upon the table cloth where the red reflection of a bottle of wine is flitting, I recall that recently some women came to this house, fleshly squint-eyed women, women who had the air of dogs scenting ordure.... I remember I had asked Juliette who those women were. One time Juliette answered: “That’s the corset maker.” Another time she said: “That’s the embroiderer.” And I believed her! One day I picked up on the carpet a visiting card which read.... Madame Rabineau, 114 Rue de Sèze. “Who was this Mme. Rabineau?” Juliette answered: “That’s nothing ... give it here....” And she tore the card up.... And fool that I was, I did not even go to the Rue de Sèze to find out!... I recall all that.... Ah! how could I ever fail to understand?... Why didn’t I seize them by the neck, these vile dealers in human flesh?...
And suddenly a great veil is lifted from my eyes, behind it I see Juliette with defiled body, exhausted and hideous, selling herself to human vultures!... Juliette is there, putting on her gloves, in front of me, in a dark dress with a thick veil which hides her features.... The shadow of her hand dances upon the table cloth, lengthens out, grows broader, shrinks again, disappears and comes back again.... I shall always see this diabolic shadow, always!...
“Kiss me, deary!”
“Don’t go out Juliette, don’t go out, I implore you!”
“Embrace me ... closer ... closer yet....”
She is sad.... Through the thick veil I feel on my cheek the moisture of a tear.
“Why do you cry, Juliette.... Juliette, for pity’s sake, stay with me!”
“Embrace me.... I adore you, my Jean.... I adore you!...”
She is gone.... Doors open, close again.... She is gone.... Outside I hear the noise of a rolling carriage. The noise grows fainter and fainter and dies out.... She is gone!...
And here I, too, am on the street.... A cab passes by—114, Rue de Sèze!
My mind was made up quickly.... I figured that I would come there before she could.... She perfectly understood that I was not taken in by that story of Gabrielle’s illness.... My anxiety, my eagerness no doubt inspired her with the fear of being spied after, followed, and most likely she would not go to the place immediately. But why did just this abominable thought flash through my mind like lightning?... Why only this possibility and no other?... I still hope that my presentiments have deceived me, that Madame Rabineau “is nothing,” that Gabrielle is really sick!
Some kind of a small hotel hedged in between two tall buildings, a narrow door hollowed out in the wall at the end of three steps; a dark façade, whose closed windows let no light penetrate.... It’s here!... It is here she is going to come, where she already came perhaps!... Rage drives me toward this door.... I should like to set this house on fire; I should like to make all those detestable ladies hidden there shriek and writhe in agony, in some hellish blaze.... Presently a woman enters, singing and swaying her body, her hands in the pockets of her light jacket.... Why did not I spit in her face?... An old man has come out of his coupé. He passed close to me, snorting, panting, supported under his arm by his valet.... His trembling feet are unable to carry him, between his flabby, swollen eyelids there glimmers a light of beastly dissipation.... Why did I not slash the hideous face of this profligate old faun?... Perhaps he is waiting for Juliette!... The door of the Inferno opened before him—and for an instant my eyes plunged into the pits of hell.... I thought I saw red flames, smoke, abominable embraces, the tumbling down of creatures horribly twisted together.... But no, it is only a gloomy deserted hallway, lit by the pale shine of a lamp; then at the end of it there is something black like a dark hole, where one feels impure things are stirring.... And carriages are stopping in front of the building, dumping out their haul of human dung into this sink of love.... A little girl barely ten years old follows me: “Nice violets! Nice violets!” ... I give her a gold piece. “Go away from here, little one, go away!... Don’t stay here. They will get you!...”
My mind is over-exerted. A thousand-toothed sorrow gnaws at my heart, a thousand claws sink into it, tears it to pieces in a frenzy of grief.... A desire to kill is kindled in me and makes my arms go through murderous motions.... Ah, to rush, whip in hand, into the midst of this lustful crowd and lash their bodies until ineffaceable marks are left on them, cause their warm blood to spurt, and scatter pieces of their living flesh all over the mirrors, carpets, beds!... And nail that Rabineau woman to the door of this house of ill-fame, like an owl on the doors of farm barns, nail her stripped, disemboweled, with her vitals out!... A hackney coach has stopped: a woman steps out. I recognize the hat, the veil, the dress.
“Juliette!”
On seeing me, she utters a cry.... But she regains her composure quickly.... Her eyes defy me.
“Leave me alone,” she cries out to me. “What are you doing here?... Leave me alone!”
I almost crush her wrists, and in a suffocating voice which rattles:
“Listen now.... If you make another step ... if you say another word ... I’ll knock you dead right here—on this sidewalk, and tramp you to death under my feet.”
With a heavy blow I strike her in the face and with my nails I furiously claw her forehead and cheeks from which blood is gushing.
“Jean! Oh! Jean!... Have mercy, please!... Jean, mercy; Mercy!... Have pity on me!... You are killing me....”
Rudely I drag her toward the carriage ... and we get in.... Huddled up in two, she sits there right close to me, sobbing.... What am I going to do now?... I don’t know.... In truth I don’t know. I don’t ask myself any questions. I don’t think of anything.... It seems as though a mountain of stone has descended upon me.... I feel the heavy rocks on which my neck has crashed, against which my flesh has been bruised.... Why, with all the black despair in which I find myself, do these high walls rise up towards heaven? Why these dismal birds flying about in unexpected sunshine?... Why is this thing crouched down beside me crying?... Why?... I don’t know....
I am going to kill her.... She is in her bedroom without lights, in bed.... I am in the dressing room pacing up and down ... I am walking back and forth with constrained breath, my head on fire, with clinched fists eager to inflict punishment.... I am going to kill her!... From time to time I stop near the door and listen.... She is crying.... And in a minute I will enter.... I will enter and pull her off the bed, drag her by the hair, knock her senseless, break her neck against the marble edges of the fireplace.... I want the room to be red with her blood.... I want to see her body beaten into lumps of battered flesh which I shall throw out with the rest of the rubbish and which the garbage man will take away tomorrow.... Cry, cry!... In a minute you’ll howl, my dearest!... Haven’t I been stupid!... To think of everything but that!... To fear everything except that!... To say to myself: “she will leave me” and never, never: “she will deceive me....” To have failed to divine the nature of this den, this old man, all this filth!... Really I had never thought of it before, blind fool that I was. She must have laughed when I implored her not to leave me!... To leave me.... Ah! yes, to leave me!... She did not want to, of course.... Now I understand it.... I inspired her neither with probity of heart nor with decency of conduct; I was to her just a label, a trade mark ... a mark of superior value!... Yes, when they saw her in my arms and therefore priced her more highly, she could sell herself for much more than she would have received if, like a nocturnal ghoul, she had roamed the sidewalks and haunted the obscene shadows of the streets.... She had swallowed my fortune in one gulp.... Her lips had rendered my mentality sterile at the first touch—. Now she is gambling with my honor, that is consistent.... With my honor!... How could she know that I had none left?...
But am I really going to kill her?... When one is dead, everything is forgotten!... One bares one’s head before the coffin of a criminal, one bows in sadness before the dead body of a prostitute.... In the churches, believers kneel down and pray for those who have suffered, for those who have sinned.... At the cemeteries reverence watches over the graves and the cross protects them.... To die is to be forgiven!... Yes, death is beautiful, holy, noble!... Death is the beginning of the great eternal light.... Ah, to die!... to stretch oneself out on a mattress softer than the softest moss in birds’ nests.... To think no more.... To hear the noise of life no longer!... To feel the infinite sweetness of nothingness!... To be a soul!...
I shall not kill her.... I shall not kill her because she has to suffer ... terribly, always.... Let her suffer in all her beauty, in all her pride, in her exposed carnality of a prostitute!... I shall not kill her, but I shall disfigure her to such an extent, I shall make her look so repulsive that people, frightened, will flee at the sight of her.... And every evening I shall compel her to appear on the streets, at the theater, everywhere with her nose crushed, her eyes bulging out from under eyelids fringed with black rings, without a veil!...
Suddenly sobs from my throat.... I fling myself on the couch, biting the cushion, and cry and cry!... Minutes, hours pass and I am still crying!... Ah! Juliette, vile Juliette!... Why did you do that?... Why?... Could you not say to me: “Here now, you are not rich any more and all I want of you is money.... Leave me!” That would have been cruel, it might have meant my death.... But what of it?... It would have been better.... How can I look into your face now?... How can our mouths ever touch each other?... There is now between us the thick wall of that wicked place!... Ah! Juliette!... Wretched Juliette!...
I remember her going out.... I recollect everything!... I recall how she was dressed in her gray dress, the shadow of her hand dancing strangely on the back of her neck.... I see her as clearly as if she were before me now, and even more so.... She was sad, she was crying.... I am sure it was not mere imagination on my part ... she was actually crying, for my cheek was wet with her tears! Whom was she crying over, me or herself? Ah! ... who knows?... I remember.... I said to her: “Don’t go out, my Juliette!...” She replied: “Embrace me closely, very closely, more closely yet!...” And her caresses had the passion of despair in them, a kind of shriveling grip, a sort of fear as if she had wanted to cling to me, to seek tremblingly protection in my arms.... I can see her eyes, her beseeching look.... They seemed to implore me: “Something abominable is drawing me on.... Hold me back!... I am close to your heart ... do not let me go!...” And instead of taking her in my arms, carrying her away, hiding her and loving her so as to make her giddy with happiness, I opened up my arms and let her go!... She sought refuge in my love, and I denied it to her.... She cried to me: “I adore you, I adore you!...” And I stood there like a fool, amazed as is a child at the unexpected flapping of the wings of a captive bird that has just escaped.... I did not understand that sadness, those tears, those caresses, those words more tender than usual, that trembling.... It is only now that I hear those silent, melancholy words: “My dear Jean, I am a poor little woman, a little foolish and so weak!... I had no idea of anything big or worth while.... Who was there to teach me what chastity, duty, virtue meant!... When I was a child yet, evil surroundings contaminated me, and vice was taught to me by the very people who were supposed to be my guardians.... Still I am not wicked and I love you.... I love you more than I ever loved you!... My beloved Jean, you are strong, you know many beautiful things which I don’t.... Well, protect me!... An overpowering desire draws me there.... The trouble is I have seen too much jewelry, too many gowns and other exquisite and expensive trifles which you can’t buy me any longer but which others have promised to get me!... I have an instinctive feeling that it’s wrong and that it will cause you suffering.... Well, subdue me!... I ask for no other chance than to be good and virtuous.... Teach me how!... Beat me ... if I resist!...”
Poor Juliette!... It seems to me that she is down on her knees before me, with clasped hands.... Tears are rolling from her eyes, from her big eyes downcast and sweet.... Tears are streaming from her eyes endlessly as they used to stream from the eyes of my mother in the past.... And at the thought that I wanted to kill her, that I wanted to disfigure her delightful and sorrowful face through horrible mutilation, I am seized with remorse and my wrath gives way to pity.... She goes on.... “Forgive me!... Oh! my Jean you must forgive me.... It is not my fault, I assure you.... Try to recall.... Did you ever warn me, even once?... Did you ever show me even once the way which I should follow? Through weakness, through fear of losing me, through excessive and criminal kindness, you have yielded to all my whims, even the most wicked ones.... How could I know that it was wrong, when you have never told me anything?... Instead of stopping me on the brink of the precipice where I was headed, you yourself have pushed me into it.... What example have you placed before my eyes?... Whither have you led me?... Have you ever tried to take me out of this alarming atmosphere of debauchery?... Why didn’t you chase Jesselin or Gabrielle out of our house, all those degenerates whose very presence only helped to increase my wickedness?... To breathe into me a particle of your own soul, to send a ray of light into the darkness of my brains—that is what you should have done!... Yes, you should have given me another life, you should have made me over again!... I am guilty, my Jean!... And I am so ashamed of myself that I can never hope to be able to atone for the infamy of this evil hour even with a whole life of sacrifice and repentance.... But you!... Is your conscience satisfied that you have done your duty?... I dread not the expiation of my sins.... On the contrary I welcome it, I want it.... But you?... Can you sit in judgment over a crime which I admit I have committed, but in which you, too, have had a part since you have not done anything to prevent it!... My dear beloved, listen to me.... This body which I have attempted to defile horrifies you; hereafter you will not be able to look at it without rage and anguish.... All right then, let it perish!... Let it rot in the oblivion of a graveyard!... There shall be left to you my soul, it belongs to you, for it has never forsaken you, for it loves you.... See how white and pure it is....”
A knife glistens in Juliette’s hands.... She is going to kill herself with it.... I grasp her arms, I shout: “No, no, Juliette, no, I don’t want you to!... I love you!... No, no.... I don’t want you to!”
My arms are brought together in an embrace, but I enclose nothing but space.... I look around me, frightened, the place is empty!... I look again.... The gas is burning with a yellow flame over the dressing table ... rumpled skirts are strewn all over the carpet ... shoes lie scattered about.... And pale daylight is stealing into the room through the open spaces in the shutters.... I begin to fear in earnest that Juliette may kill herself, for otherwise why should this vision arise before me?... On tiptoe, quietly I walk toward the door and listen.... A feeble sigh reaches my ear, then a wailing, then a sob.... And like a fool I rush into the room.... A voice speaks to me in the darkness, the voice of Juliette:
“Ah! my Jean! My dear little Jean!”
And chastely, as Christ kissed Magdalene, I kissed her on the forehead.