The confession by Gui de Monpassant. Marguerite de Terelle was dying. Although but
fifty six, she seemed like seventy five. At least, she panted paler
than the sheets, shaken by dreadful shiverings. Her face convulsed, her eyes
haggard, as if she had seen some horrible thing. Her eldest sister,
Suzanne, six years older, sobbed on her knees beside the bed. A
little table, drawn close to the couch of the dying woman and covered with
a napkin, bore two lighted candles, the priest being momentarily expected to give
extreme unction and the communion, which should be the last. The apartment had
that sinister aspect, that air of hopeless farewells which belongs to the chambers of
the dying. Medicine bottles stood about on the furniture. Linen lay in the
corners, pushed aside by foot or broom. The disordered chairs themselves seemed affrighted,
as if they had run. In all the senses of the word death.
The formidable was there hidden waiting. The story of the two sisters was
very touching. It was quoted far and wide. It had made many eyes
to weep. Suzanne, the elder, had once been madly in love with
a young man who had also been in love with her. They were engaged
and were only waiting the day fixed for the contract when Henry de Lampierre suddenly
died. The despair of the young girl was dreadful, and she vowed that
she would never marry. She kept her word. She put on widow's weeds,
which she never took off. Then her sister, her little sister,
Marguerite, who was only twelve years old, came one morning to throw herself
into the arms of the elder and said, big sister, I do not
want thee to be unhappy. I do not want thee to cry all thy
life. I will never leave thee never never, ay, I too,
shall never marry. I shall stay with thee always, always always. Suzanne,
touched by the devotion of the child, kissed her but did not believe.
Yet the little one also kept her word, and despite the entreaties of
her parents, despite the supplications of the elder, she never married. She
was pretty, very pretty. She refused many a young man who seemed to
love her truly, and she never left her sister more. They lived together
all the days of their life, without ever being separated a single time.
They went side by side, inseparably united. But Marguerite seemed always sad,
oppressed, more melancholy than the elder, as though perhaps her sublime sacrifice had
broken her spirit. She aged more quickly, had white hair from the age
of thirty, and often suffering, seemed afflicted by some secret, gnawing trouble.
Now she was to be the first to die, since yesterday she was
no longer able to speak. She had only said, at the first glimmers
of day dawn, go fetch monsieur le coret. The moment has come,
and she had remained since then upon her back shaken with spasms, her lips
agitated, as though dreadful words were mounting from her heart without power of issue.
Her look mad with fear, terrible to see her sister torn by sorrow.
Wept wildly, her forehead resting on the edge of the bed, and
kept repeating, Margot, My poor Margot, my little one. She had
always called her little one, just as the younger had always called her big
sister. Steps were heard on the stairs, the door opened, A choir
boy appeared, followed by an old priest in a surplice. As soon as
she perceived him, the dying woman, with one shudder, sat up,
opened her lips, stammered two or three words, and began to scratch the
sheets with her nails, as if she had wished to make a hole.
The abbe Simon approached, took her hand, kissed her brow, and with
a soft voice, God, pardon thee, my child, have courage.
The moment is now come. Speak. Then, Marguerite, shivering from head
to foot, shaking her whole couch with nervous moments, stammered, sit down,
big sister, listen. The priest bent down towards Suzan, who was
still flung upon the bed's foot. He raised her, placed her in her
arm chair, and, taking a hand of each of the sisters in one
of his own, he pronounced, Lord, my God, and do them
with strength, cast thy mercy upon them. And Marguerite began to speak.
The words issued from her throat, one by one, rocus with sharp pauses,
as though very feeble. Pardon, pardon, big sister, Oh forgive
If thou knewest how I have had fear of this moment all my life,
Suzan stammered through her tears. Forgive thee what little one Thou hast given all
to me, sacrificed everything. Thou art an angel. But Marguerite interrupted her,
Hush, hush, let me speak. Do not stop me. It
is dreadful. Let me tell all to the very end, without flinching.
Listen, Thou rememberest. Henry Suzanne trembled and looked at her sister. The
younger continued, Thou must hear all to understand. I was twelve years old,
only twelve years old, thou rememberest. Well, is it not so?
And I was spoiled. I did everything that I liked. Thou rememberest.
Surely how they spoiled me? Listen? The first time that he came,
he had varnished boots. He got down from his horse at the great
steps, and he begged pardon for his costume. But he came to bring
some news to Papa. Thou rememberest, Is it not so? Don't speak
listen. When I saw him, I was completely carried away. I found
him so very beautiful, and I remained standing in a corner of the salon
all the time that he was talking. Children are strange and terrible. Oh
yes, I have dreamed of all that. He came back again several times.
I looked at him with all my eyes, with all my soul.
I was large of my age and very much more knowing than anyone thought.
He came back often. I thought only of him. I said, very
low, Henry, Henry de Lampierre. Then they said that he was going
to marry thee. It was a sorrow, oh, big sister, A
sorrow, A sorrow. I cried for three nights without sleeping. He came
back every day in the afternoon after his lunch. Thou rememberest, Is it
not so? Say nothing? Listen? Thou madest him cakes which he liked,
with meal, with butter and milk. Oh, I know well how
I could make them, Yet if it were needed, he ate them at
one mouthful, and and then he drank a glass of wine. And then
he said it is delicious. Thou rememberest how he would say that? I
was jealous? Jealous? The moment of thy marriage approached, there were only
two weeks more. I became crazy. I said to myself, he shall
not marry Suzanne. No, I will not have it. It is I
whom he will marry when I am grown up. I shall never find any
one whom I love so much. But one night, ten days before the
contract, thou tookst a walk with him in front of the chateau by moonlight,
and there under the fir, under the great fur, he kissed thee,
kissed, holding thee in his two arms. So long thou rememberest,
is it not so? It was probably the first time. Yes, thou
wast so pale. When thou earnest back to the salon, I had seen
you too. I was there in the shrubbery. I was angry. If
I could, I should have killed you both. I said to myself,
he shall not marry Suzan. Never, he shall marry no one. I
should be too unhappy. And all of a sudden I began to hate him
dreadfully. Then dost thou know what I did? Listen? I had seen
the gardener making little balls to kill strange dogs. He pounded up a bottle
with a stone and put the powdered glass in a little ball of meat.
I took a little medicine bottle that Mamma had. I broke it small with
a hammer, and I hid the glass in my pocket. It was a
shining powder. The next day, as soon as you had made the little
cakes. I split them with a knife, and I put in the glass.
He ate three of them. I too, I ate one. I
threw the other six into the pond. The two swans died three days after.
Do thou remember, oh, say nothing. Listen, Listen, I
alone did not die, but I have always been sick. Listen he died.
Thou knowest well. Listen that that is nothing. It is afterwards later
always the worst. Listen my life, all my life, what torture.
I said to myself. I will never leave my sister. And at the
hour of death, I will tell her all there and ever since. I
have always thought of that moment when I should tell thee all. Now it
is come. It is terrible, Oh, big sister. I have always
thought morning and evening, by night and by day. Some time I must
tell her that I waited. What agony? It is done. Say nothing
now. I am afraid. I am afraid. Oh, I am afraid.
If I am going to see him again, soon when I am dead,
see him again. Think of it the first before thou I shall not
dare I must. I am going to die. I want you to forgive
me. I want it. I cannot go off to meet him. Without
that, Oh, tell her to forgive me, monsieur le core, Tell
her, I implore you to do it. I cannot die without that.
She was silent and remained panting, always scratching the sheet with her withered nails.
Suzan had hidden her face in her hands and did not move. She
was thinking of him, whom she might have loved so long, What a
good life they should have had together. She saw him once again, in
that vanished, by gone time, and that old past which was put out
forever, the beloved dead. How they tear your hearts. Oh, that
kiss, his only kiss. She had hidden it in her soul, and
after it nothing nothing more, her whole life long. All of a sudden,
the priest stood straight, and with the strong, vibrant voice, he
cried, mademoiselle Suzanne, your sister is dying. Then Suzan, opening her
hands, showed her face soaked with tears, and throwing herself upon her sister,
she kissed her with all her might, stammering, I forgive thee,
I forgive thee little one,