Speaker 1: 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,