Short Fiction

and I succumb at once, saying to myself: ‘This is really the end; I will have no more of her death-giving kisses,’ and then, when I have yielded again, like I have today, I go out and walk and walk, thinking of death, and saying to myself that I am lost, that all is over.

“I am mentally so ill that I went for a walk to Père Lachaise cemetery yesterday. I looked at all the graves, standing in a row like dominoes, and I thought to myself: ‘I shall soon be there,’ and then I returned home, quite determined to pretend to be ill, and so escape, but I could not.

“Oh! You don’t know what it is. Ask a smoker who is poisoning himself with nicotine whether he can give up his delicious and deadly habit. He will tell you that he has tried a hundred times without success, and he will, perhaps, add: ‘So much the worse, but I would rather die than go without tobacco.’ That is just the case with me. When once one is in the clutches of such a passion or such a habit, one must give oneself up to it entirely.”

He got up and held out his hand. I felt seized with a tumult of rage, and with hatred for this woman, this careless, charming, terrible woman; and as he was buttoning up his coat to go away I said to him, brutally perhaps:

“But, in God’s name, why don’t you let her have lovers rather than kill yourself like that?”

He shrugged his shoulders without replying, and went off.

For six months I did not see him. Every morning I expected a letter of invitation to his funeral, but I would not go to his house from a complicated feeling of anger against him and of contempt for that woman; for a thousand different reasons.

One lovely spring morning I was walking in the Champs-Élysées. It was one of those warm afternoons which make our eyes bright and stir in us a tumultuous feeling of happiness from the mere sense of existence. Someone tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I saw my old friend, looking well, stout, and rosy.

He gave me both hands, beaming with pleasure, and exclaimed:

“Here you are, you erratic individual!”

I looked at him, utterly thunderstruck.

“Well, on my word⁠—yes. By Jove! I congratulate you; you have indeed changed in the last six months!”

He flushed scarlet, and said, with an embarrassed laugh:

“One can but do one’s best.”

I looked at him so obstinately that he evidently felt uncomfortable, so I went on:

“So⁠—now⁠—you are⁠—completely cured?”

He stammered, hastily:

“Yes, perfectly, thank you.” Then changing his tone, “How lucky that I should have come across you, old fellow. I hope we shall see each other often now.”

But I would not give up my idea; I wanted to know how matters really stood, so I asked:

“Don’t you remember what you told me six months ago? I suppose⁠—I⁠—eh⁠—suppose you resist now?”

“Please don’t talk any more about it,” he replied, uneasily; “forget that I mentioned it to you; leave me alone. But, you know, I have no intention of letting you go; you must come and dine at my house.”

A sudden fancy took me to see for myself how matters stood, so that I might understand all about it, and I accepted. Two hours later he introduced me to his home.

His wife received me in a most charming manner, and she was, as a matter of fact, a most attractive woman. She looked guileless, distinguished and adorably naive. Her long hands, her neck, and cheeks were beautifully white and delicate, and marked her breeding, and her walk was undulating and delightful, as if her leg gave slightly at each step.

René gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead and said:

“Has not Lucien come yet?”

“Not yet,” she replied, in a clear, soft voice; “you know he is almost always rather late.”

At that moment the bell rang, and a tall man was shown in. He was dark, with a thick beard, and looked like a society Hercules. We were introduced to each other; his name was Lucien Delabarre.

René and he shook hands in a most friendly manner, and then we went to dinner.

It was a most enjoyable meal, without the least constraint. My old friend spoke with me constantly, in the old familiar cordial manner, just as he used to do. It was: “You know, old fellow!”⁠—“I say, old fellow!”⁠—“Just listen a moment, old fellow!” Suddenly he exclaimed:

“You don’t know how glad I am to see you again; it takes me back to old times.”

I looked at his wife and the other man. Their attitude was perfectly correct, though I fancied once or twice that they exchanged a rapid and furtive look.

As soon as dinner was over René turned to his wife, and said:

“My dear, I have just met Pierre again, and I am going to carry him off for a walk and a chat along the boulevards to remind us of old times. You will excuse this bachelor spree. I am leaving Mr. Delabarre with you.”

The young woman smiled, and said to me, as she shook hands with me:

“Don’t keep him too long.”

As we went along, arm-in-arm, I could not help saying to him, for I was determined to know how matters stood:

“What has happened? Do tell me!”

He, however, interrupted me roughly, and answered like a man who has been disturbed without any reason.

“Just look here, old fellow; leave me alone with your questions.”

Then he added, half aloud, as if talking to himself:

“After all, it would have been too stupid to have let oneself go to perdition like that.”

I did not press him. We walked on quickly and began to talk. All of a sudden he whispered in my ear:

“I say, suppose we go and see the girls! Eh?”

I could not help laughing heartily.

“Just as you like; come along, old man.”

The First Fall of Snow

The promenade of La Croisette curves along the edge of the blue sea. To