When we played for money, his constant winnings gave him mean and degrading joy; then a word from his wife made up to me for everything, and brought him back to a sense of decency and politeness. But ere long I fell into the torments of a fiery furnace I had not foreseen: at this rate my pocket-money was melting.
Though the Count always remained between his wife and me till I took my leave, sometimes at a late hour, I always hoped to find a moment when I might steal into her heart; but in order to attain that hour, watched for with the painful patience of a sportsman, I saw that I must persevere in these weariful games, through which I endured mental misery, and which were winning away all my money!
Many a time had we sat in silence, watching an effect of the sun on the meadows, of the clouds in a gray sky, the blue misty hills, or the quivering moonbeams on the gem-like play of the river, without uttering a word beyond:
“What a beautiful night!”
“Madame, the night is a woman.”
“And what peace!”
“Yes; it is impossible to be altogether unhappy here.”
At this reply she returned to her worsted-work. I had in fact understood the yearnings of her inmost self stirred by an affection that insisted on its rights.
Without money my evenings were at an end. I wrote to my mother to send me some; my mother scolded me and would give me none for a week. To whom could I apply? And it was a matter of life or death to me!
Thus at the very beginning of my first great happiness I again felt the sufferings which had always pursued me; in Paris, at school, I had evaded them by melancholy abstinence, my woes were only negative; at Frapesle they were active; I now knew that longing to steal, those dreamed-of crimes and horrible frenzies which blast the soul, and which we are bound to stifle or lose all self-respect. My remembrance of the miserable reflections, the anguish inflicted on me by my mother’s parsimony, have given me that holy indulgence for young men which those must feel who, without having fallen, have stood on the edge of the gulf and sounded the abyss. Though my honesty, watered with cold sweats, stood firm at those moments when the waters of life part and show the stony depths of its bed, whenever human justice draws her terrible sword on a man’s neck, I say to myself, “Penal laws were made by those who never knew want.”
In this dire extremity I found in Monsieur de Chessel’s library a treatise on backgammon, and this I studied; then my host was good enough to give me a few lessons. Under milder tuition I made some progress, and could apply the rules and calculations which I learned by heart. In a few days I was able to beat my master. But when I won he waxed furious; his eyes glared like a tiger’s, his face twitched, his brows worked as I never saw any other’s work. His fractiousness was like that of a spoilt child. Sometimes he would fling the dice across the room, rage and stamp, bite the dicebox, and abuse me. But this violence had to be stopped. As soon as I could play a good game, I disposed of the battle as I pleased. I arranged it so that we should come out nearly even at the end, allowing him to win at the beginning of the evening, and restoring the balance in the later games.
The end of the world would have amazed the Count less than his pupil’s sudden proficiency; but, in fact, he never perceived it. The regular result of our play was a novelty that bewildered his mind.
“My poor brain is tired no doubt,” he would say. “You always win at the finish, because by that time I have exhausted my powers.”
The Countess, who knew the game, detected my purpose from the first, and saw in it an evidence of immense affection. These details can only be appreciated by those to whom the extreme difficulty of backgammon is known. How much this trifle betrayed! But love, like God as depicted by Bossuet, regards the poor man’s cup of water, the struggle of the soldier who dies inglorious, as far above the most profitable victories.
The Countess gave me one of those looks of silent gratitude that overpower a youthful heart: she bestowed on me such a glance as she reserved for her children. From that thrice-blessed evening she always looked at me when she spoke to me.
I could never find words for my state of mind when I left. My soul had absorbed my body. I weighed nothing, I did not walk—I floated. I felt within me still that look that had bathed me in glory, just as her “Good night, monsieur,” had echoed in my soul like the harmonies of the “O filii, O filiae!” of the Easter benediction. I was born to new life. I was something to her, then!
I slept in wrappings of purple. Flames danced before my closed eyes, chasing each other in the dark like the pretty bright sparks that run over charred paper. And in my dreams her voice seemed something tangible—an atmosphere that lapped me in light and fragrance, a melody that lulled my spirit.
Next day her welcome conveyed the
