viii

and yet i saw alissa once more. it was three years later, towards the end of summer. ten months

before, i had heard from her the news of my uncle’s death. a fairly long letter, which i had at once

written her from palestine, where i was travelling at the time, had remained unanswered.

happening to be at le havre, on i forget what errand, a natural instinct set me on the road to

fongueusemare. i knew alissa was there, but i was afraid she might not be alone. i had not

announced my arrival; shrinking from the idea of presenting myself like an ordinary visitor, i went on

my way undecided; should i go in? or should i go away without having seen her, without having tried

to see her? yes, without doubt, i would just walk up the avenue, sit on the bench where sometimes,

perhaps, she still went to sit... and i was already beginning to wonder what token i could leave behind

me, which after i had gone, would tell of my coming... thus reflecting, i walked slowly on; and now

that i had resolved not to see her, the sharpness of the sorrow which wrung my heart began to give

way to a melancholy that was almost sweet. i had already reached the avenue, and, for fear of being

taken unawares, i was walking on the footpath which ran along the bottom of the bank skirting the

farmyard. i knew a place on the bank from which one could look over into the garden; i climbed up;

a gardener whom i did not recognize was raking one of the paths and soon disappeared from sight.

there was a new gate to the courtyard. a dog barked as i went by. further on, where the avenue

came to an end, i turned to the right, came again upon the garden wall, and was making my way to

the portion of the beech wood, parallel to the avenue i had left, when, as i was passing by the little

door that led into the kitchen garden, the idea of going in suddenly seized me.

the door was shut. the inside bolt, however, offered only a slight resistance and i was on the

point of forcing it open with my shoulder... at that moment i heard the sound of steps; i drew back

round the corner of the wall.

i could not see who it was that came out of the garden; but i heard, i felt it was alissa. she took

three steps forward and called in a weak voice:

‘is that you, jérôme?’

my heart, which was beating violently, stopped, and as no word would come from my choking

throat, she repeated louder:

‘jérôme! is that you?’

at hearing her call me in this way, the emotion which seized on me was so great that it forced me

to my knees. as i still did not answer, alissa took a few steps forward, turned the corner of the wall,

and i suddenly felt her against me – against me, who was kneeling there hiding my face with my arm,

as if in dread of seeing her too soon. she remained a few moments stooping over me, while i covered

her frail hands with kisses.

‘why were you hiding?’ she said, as simply as if those three years of absence had lasted only a

few days.

‘how did you guess it was i?’

‘i was expecting you.’

‘expecting me?’ said i, so astonished that i could only repeat her words, wondering... and as i

was still on my knees:

‘let us go to the bench,’ she went on. ‘yes, i knew i was to see you again once more. for the last

three days i have come here every evening and called you, as i did tonight... why didn’t you

answer?’

‘if you had not come upon me by surprise, i should have gone away without seeing you,’ i said,

steeling myself against the emotion which had at first overmastered me. ‘i happened to be at le

havre, and merely meant to walk along the avenue and round the outside of the garden and to rest a

few moments on this bench, where i thought you might still come to sit sometimes, and then...’

‘look what i have brought here to read for the last three evenings,’ she interrupted, and held out

to me a packet of letters; i recognized those i had written her from italy. at that moment i raised my

eyes to look at her. she was extraordinarily changed; her thinness, her paleness smote my heart

horribly. leaning heavily upon my arm, she clung to me as though she were frightened or cold. she

was still in deep mourning, and no doubt the black lace which she had put round her head, and which

framed her face, added to her paleness. she was smiling, but her failing limbs seemed hardly to bear

her up. i was anxious to know whether she was alone at fongueusemare. no, robert was living with

her: juliette, édouard, and their children had been spending august with them. we had reached the

bench; we sat down and the conversation for a few minutes longer dragged along in the usual

commonplace inquiries.

she asked after my work. i replied with a bad grace. i should have liked her to feel that my work

no longer interested me. i should have liked to disappoint her as she had disappointed me. i do not

know whether i succeeded, but if so, she did not show it. as for me, full of both resentment and love,

i did my best to speak as curtly as possible, and was angry with myself for the emotion which at

times made my voice tremble.

the setting sun, which had been hidden for a few moments by a cloud, reappeared on the edge of

the horizon almost opposite us, flooding the empty fields with a shimmering glory and heaping the

narrow valley that opened at our feet with a sudden profusion of wealth; then it disappeared. i sat

there dazzled and speechless; i felt that i was wrapped round and steeped in a kind of golden ecstasy,

in which my resentment vanished and nothing survived in me but love. alissa, who had been leaning,

drooping against me, sat up; she took out of her bodice a tiny packet wrapped up in tissue paper,

made as though she meant to give it me, stopped, seemed to hesitate, and, as i looked at her in

surprise:

‘listen, jérôme,’ said she, ‘this is my amethyst cross that i have here; for the last three evenings i

have brought it here because for a long time past i have been wanting to give it you.’

‘what am i to do with it?’ i asked her, rather brusquely.

‘keep it in memory of me for your daughter.’

‘what daughter?’ i cried, looking at alissa without understanding her.

‘please, listen to me quite calmly; no, don’t look at me so; don’t look at me; it’s already difficult

enough for me to speak to you; but i must, i simply must say this. listen, jérôme: one day you will

marry – no, don’t answer; don’t interrupt, i implore you. i only want you to remember that i loved

you very much, and... a long time ago... three years ago i thought that a daughter of yours might one

day wear this little cross you liked, in memory of me. oh! without knowing whose it was... and

perhaps, too, you might give her... my name...’

she stopped, her voice choking: i exclaimed, almost with hostility:

‘why not give it her yourself?’

she tried to speak again. her lips trembled like those of a sobbing child, but she did not cry; the

extraordinary light that shone in her eyes flooded her face with an unearthly, an angelic beauty.

‘alissa! whom should i marry? you know i can love no one but you...’ and suddenly clasping her

wildly, almost brutally in my arms, i crushed my kisses on her lips. an instant i held her unresisting,

as she half lay back against me; i saw her look grow dim; then her eyes closed, and in a voice so true

and melodious that never to my mind will it be equalled:

‘have pity on us, my friend!’ she said. ‘oh! don’t spoil our love.’

perhaps she said too: ‘don’t be cowardly!’ or perhaps it was i who said it to myself; i cannot tell

now; but suddenly flinging myself on my knees before her, and folding my arms piously round her:

‘if you loved me so, why have you always repulsed me? think! i waited first for juliette to be

married; i understood your waiting for her to be happy, too; she is happy; you yourself have told me

so. i thought for a long time that you didn’t want to leave your father; but now we are both alone.’

‘oh! don’t let us regret the past,’ she murmured. ‘i have turned the page now.’

‘there is still time, alissa.’

‘no, my friend, there is not time. there was no longer time from the moment when our love made

us foresee for one another something better than love. thanks to you, my friend, my dream climbed

so high that any earthly satisfaction would have been a declension. i have often thought of what our

life with each other would have been; as soon as it had been less than perfect, i could not have

borne... our love.’

‘did you ever think what our life would be without each other?’

‘no! never.’

‘now you see! for the last three years, without you, i have been drifting miserably about...’

the evening was drawing in.

‘i am cold,’ said she, getting up and wrapping her shawl too closely round her for me to be able

to take her arm again. ‘you remember the scripture text which troubled us so, and which we were

afraid we didn’t understand properly: “these all received not the promise, god having provided some

better thing for us”...’

‘do you still believe those words?’

‘indeed i must.’

we walked on for a few moments beside each other, without saying anything more. she went on;

‘can you imagine it, jérôme? – “some better thing!”’ and suddenly the tears started from her

eyes, as she repeated once more: ‘“some better thing!”’

we had again reached the small garden door through which she had come out a little before. she

turned towards me;

‘good-bye!’ said she. ‘no, don’t come any further. good-bye, my beloved friend. now... the

better thing... is going to begin.’

one moment she looked at me, at once holding me fast and keeping me at arm’s length, her hands

on my shoulders, her eyes filled with an unspeakable love.

as soon as the door was shut, as soon as i heard the bolt drawn behind her, i fell against the door,

a prey to the extremest despair, and stayed for a long time weeping and sobbing in the night.

but to have kept her, to have forced the door, to have entered by any means whatever into the

house, which yet would not have been shut against me – no, even today, when i look back to the past

and live it over again – no, it was not possible to me, and whoever does not understand me here, has

understood nothing of me up till now.

intolerable anxiety made me write to juliette a few days later. i told her of my visit to

fongueusemare, and how much alissa’s paleness and thinness had alarmed me; i implored her to see

what could be done, and to give me news which i could no longer expect to get from alissa herself.

less than a month later, i received the following letter:

‘my dear jérôme,

‘this is to give you very sad news; our poor alissa is no more. alas! the fears you expressed in your letter were

only too well founded. for the last few months, without being ill exactly, she seemed to be wasting away; she

yielded, however, to my entreaties and consented to see dr a—, who wrote to me that there was nothing serious the

matter with her. but three days after the visit you paid her, she suddenly left fongueusemare. it was from a letter of

robert’s that i learnt she was gone; she writes to me so seldom that if it had not been for him i should have known

nothing of her flight, for i should have been a long time before taking alarm at her silence. i blamed robert severely

for having let her go in this way, and for not having gone with her to paris. will you believe that from that moment

we were ignorant of her address? you can imagine my sickening anxiety; impossible to see her, impossible even to

write to her. robert, it is true, went to paris a few days later, but he was unable to discover anything. he is so slack

that we could not trust to his taking the proper steps. we had to tell the police; it was not possible to remain in such

cruel uncertainty. édouard then went himself, and at last managed to discover the little nursing home where alissa

had taken refuge. alas! too late. i received a letter from the head of the home announcing her death, and, at the

same time, a telegram from édouard, who was not in time to see her again. on the last day she had written our

address on an envelope, so that we might be told, and in another envelope she had put the copy of a letter she had

sent our lawyer at le havre containing her last instructions. i think there is a passage in this letter which concerns

you: i will let you know soon. édouard and robert were able to be present at the funeral which took place the day

before yesterday. they were not the only persons to follow the bier. some of the patients of the nursing home

wished to be present at the ceremony and to accompany the body to the cemetery. as for me, i am expecting my

fifth baby any day now, and unfortunately i was unable to move.

‘my dear jérôme, i know the deep sorrow this loss will cause you, and i write to you with a breaking heart. i

have been obliged to stop in bed for the last two days, and i write with difficulty, but i could not let anyone else, not

even édouard or robert, speak to you of her whom we two, doubtless, were the only persons in the world to know.

now that i am an almost old mother of a family, and that the burning past is covered over with a heap of ashes, i

may hope to see you again. if business or pleasure ever takes you to nîmes, come on to aigues-vives. édouard

would be glad to know you, and you and i would be able to talk together of alissa. good-bye, my dear jérôme.

‘affectionately and sadly yours...’

a few days later, i learnt that alissa had left fongueusemare to her brother, but had asked that all

things that were in her room and a few pieces of furniture which she mentioned, should be sent to

juliette. i was shortly to receive some papers which she had put in a sealed packet addressed to me. i

learnt, also, that she had asked that the little amethyst cross which i had refused at my last visit

should be put round her neck, and i heard from édouard that this had been done.

the sealed packet which the lawyer sent me contained alissa’s journal. i here transcribe a

considerable number of its pages. i transcribe them without commentary. you will imagine well

enough the reflections i made as i read, and the commotion of my heart, of which i could but give a

too imperfect idea.