The following
adventure happened to me about 1882. I had just taken the train and
settled down in a corner, hoping that I should be left alone, when the
door suddenly opened again and I heard a voice say: “Take care,
monsieur, we are just at a crossing; the step is very high.”
Another voice answered: “That's all right, Laurent, I have a firm hold on the handle.”
Then a head
appeared, and two hands seized the leather straps hanging on either side
of the door and slowly pulled up an enormous body, whose feet striking
on the step, sounded like two canes. When the man had hoisted his torso
into the compartment I noticed, at the loose edge of his trousers, the
end of a wooden leg, which was soon followed by its mate. A head
appeared behind this traveller and asked; “Are you all right, monsieur
?”
“Yes, my boy.”
“Then here are your packages and crutches.”
And a servant, who
looked like an old soldier, climbed in, carrying in his arms a stack of
bundles wrapped in black and yellow papers and carefully tied; he placed
one after the other in the net over his master's head. Then he said:
“There, monsieur, that is all. There are five of them, the candy, the
doll the drum, the gun, and the pate de foies gras.”
“Very well, my boy.”
“Thank you, Laurent; good health !”
The man closed the
door and walked away, and I looked at my neighbor. He was about
thirty-five, although his hair was almost white; he wore the ribbon of
the Legion of Honor; he had a heavy mustache and was quite stout, with
the stoutness of a strong and active man who is kept motionless on
account of some infirmity. He wiped his brow, sighed, and, looking me
full in the face, he asked: “Does smoking annoy you, monsieur ?”
“No, monsieur.”
Surely I knew that
eye, that voice, that face. But when and where had I seen them ? I had
certainly met that man, spoken to him, shaken his hand. That was a long,
long time ago. It was lost in the haze wherein the mind seems to feel
around blindly for memories and pursues them like fleeing phantoms
without being able to seize them. He, too, was observing me, staring me
out of countenance, with the persistence of a man who remembers slightly
but not completely. Our eyes, embarrassed by this persistent contact,
turned away; then, after a few minutes, drawn together again by the
obscure and tenacious will of working memory, they met once more, and I
said: “Monsieur, instead of staring at each other for an hour or so,
would it not be better to try to discover where we have known each other
?”
My neighbor answered graciously: “You are quite right, monsieur.”
I named myself: “I am Henri Bonclair, a magistrate.”
He hesitated for a
few minutes; then, with the vague look and voice which accompany great
mental tension, he said: “Oh, I remember perfectly. I met you twelve
years ago, before the war, at the Poincels !”
“Yes, monsieur. Ah! Ah! You are Lieutenant Revaliere ?”
“Yes. I was Captain Revaliere even up to the time when I lost my feet - both of them together from one cannon ball.”
Now that we knew
each other's identity we looked at each other again. I remembered
perfectly the handsome, slender youth who led the cotillons with such
frenzied agility and gracefulness that he had been nicknamed “the fury.”
Going back into the dim, distant past, I recalled a story which I had
heard and forgotten, one of those stories to which one listens but
forgets, and which leave but a faint impression upon the memory.
There was something
about love in it. Little by little the shadows cleared up, and the face
of a young girl appeared before my eyes. Then her name struck me with
the force of an explosion: Mademoiselle de Mandel. I remembered
everything now. It was indeed a love story, but quite commonplace. The
young girl loved this young man, and when I had met them there was
already talk of the approaching wedding. The youth seemed to be very
much in love, very happy.
I raised my eye to
the net, where all the packages which had been brought in by the servant
were trembling from the motion of the train, and the voice of the
servant came back to me, as if he had just finished speaking. He had
said: “There, monsieur, that is all. There are five of them: the candy,
the doll, the drum, the gun, and the pate de foies gras.”
Then, in a second, a
whole romance unfolded itself in my head. It was like all those which I
had already read, where the young lady married notwithstanding the
catastrophe, whether physical or financial; therefore, this officer who
had been maimed in the war had returned, after the campaign, to the
young girl who had given him her promise, and she had kept her word.
I considered that
very beautiful, but simple, just as one, considers simple all devotions
and climaxes in books or in plays. It always seems, when one reads or
listens to these stories of magnanimity, that one could sacrifice one's
self with enthusiastic pleasure and overwhelming joy. But the following
day, when an unfortunate friend comes to borrow some money, there is a
strange revulsion of feeling.
But, suddenly,
another supposition, less poetic and more realistic, replaced the first
one. Perhaps he had married before the war, before this frightful
accident, and she, in despair and resignation, had been forced to
receive, care for, cheer, and support this husband, who had departed, a
handsome man, and had returned without his feet, a frightful wreck,
forced into immobility, powerless anger, and fatal obesity.
Was he happy or in
torture ? I was seized with an irresistible desire to know his story,
or, at least, the principal points, which would permit me to guess that
which he could not or would not tell me. Still thinking the matter over,
I began talking to him. We had exchanged a few commonplace words; and I
raised my eyes to the net, and thought: “He must have three children:
the bonbons are for his wife, the doll for his little girl, the drum and
the gun for his sons, and this pate de foies gras for himself.”
Suddenly I asked him: “Are you a father, monsieur ?”
He answered: “No, monsieur.”
I suddenly felt
confused, as if I had been guilty of some breach of etiquette, and I
continued: “I beg your pardon. I had thought that you were when I heard
your servant speaking about the toys. One listens and draws conclusions
unconsciously.”
He smiled and then murmured: “No, I am not even married. I am still at the preliminary stage.”
I pretended suddenly to remember, and said:
“Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle de Mandel, I believe.”
“Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent.”
I grew very bold and added: “I also seem to remember hearing that Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur....Monsieur...”
He calmly mentioned the name: “Monsieur de Fleurel.”
“Yes, that's it ! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of your wound.”
I looked him full in
the face, and he blushed. His full face, which was already red from the
oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answered quickly, with a sudden
ardor of a man who is pleading a cause which is lost in his mind and in
his heart, but which he does not wish to admit.
“It is wrong,
monsieur, to couple my name with that of Madame de Fleurel. When I
returned from the war-without my feet, alas ! I never would have
permitted her to become my wife. Was it possible ? When one marries,
monsieur, it is not in order to parade one's generosity; it is in order
to live every day, every hour, every minute, every second beside a man;
and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death sentence to marry
him ! Oh, I understand, I admire all sacrifices and devotions when they
have a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should give up her whole
life, all joy, all her dreams, in order to satisfy the admiration of the
gallery. When I hear, on the floor of my room, the tapping of my wooden
legs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough to strangle my servant. Do
you think that I would permit a woman to do what I myself am unable to
tolerate? And, then, do you think that my stumps are pretty ?”
He was silent. What
could I say ? He certainly was right. Could I blame her, hold her in
contempt, even say that she was wrong ? No. However, the end which
conformed to the rule, to the truth, did not satisfy my poetic appetite.
These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, which seemed to be
lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment. I suddenly asked: “Has
Madame de Fleurel any children ?”
“Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them that I am bringing these toys. She and her husband are very kind to me.”
The train was going
up the incline to Saint-Germain. It passed through the tunnels, entered
the station, and stopped. I was about to offer my arm to the wounded
officer, in order to help him descend, when two hands were stretched up
to him through the open door.
“Hello ! my dear Revaliere !”
“Ah! Hello, Fleurel!”
Standing behind the
man, the woman, still beautiful, was smiling and waving her hands to
him. A little girl, standing beside her, was jumping for joy, and two
young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the gun, which were
passing from the car into their father's hands.
When the cripple was
on the ground, all the children kissed him. Then they set off, the
little girl holding in her hand the small varnished rung of a crutch,
just as she might walk beside her big friend and hold his thumb.
