himself.
“You wake up to see a woman sleeping in your bed and the first thing you ask yourself is: ‘What’s she doing here?’ That’s how I’ve felt for years and years.”
“There’s that overwhelming depression,” said Augustin, “at the thought of going home in the evening.”
“Only breathing freely far away from her.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing that you’re being cruel, untruthful, wicked, and hypocritical but not being able to do anything at all about it. I couldn’t say this to anyone else in the world. I’d be ashamed. But you must understand me. Did you ever know why I married Alix? No? I was in love with a woman, never mind her name. She is dead. You, Augustin, had married Claire. Alix was living with you. I saw her constantly. I knew she loved me and it made me feel grateful to her. There’s something overpowering about a woman who wants to be loved: that face always lifted up to you, that anxious look, that obsessive desire. It gives you a feeling of limitless power. I thought it could replace love.”
“It does,” said Albert.
“Sometimes,” murmured Augustin.
“Yes, but in that case both of you have to be disappointedand resigned, like you and your wife,” said Alain sharply as he turned toward Augustin, who flinched and said nothing. “But when one of you still loves, still suffers, and the other can only watch the loving and the suffering—ah, that’s hell! I’ve been thinking about going for years, dreaming about leaving her! For years, do you understand? But I can’t leave them wandering the streets; they only have me … If only I could make her happy, but she’d be a hundred, a thousand times happier if I were far away. Oh, if only you could, would dare, help me! We were young together, and our lives are similar. Do you want to punish me?”
“Alain,” said Augustin, raising his head, “you lied just now … This woman isn’t dead, is she? Are you going away to be with her?”
“Yes. She’s married. Her husband’s taking her away. I want to live with her. I must. I’ve only ever been happy with her. I married Alix in despair, out of spite; then I found her again; she’s been my mistress for more than eight years. If I have to stay here, I’ll never forgive Alix. Our life would become a living hell. You’re my brothers: you should love me above duty, above morality. Yes, I know what I’m asking seems cruel and senseless—abandoning a wife who is beyond reproach, abandoning my children. But what can I do, if they’re like strangers to me? I’ve tried desperately to love them, without being able to. The other one … the other one. I love her! She has a child by me. My life is with her. Think about it …I’m asking you … for some money, Albert, and for you, Augustin, to put up with Claire’s reproaches and Alix’s tears. If I stay, what will happen? Nothing but misery for my wife, my mistress, and myself. If my sacrifice would make Alix happy, perhaps I’d give in and resign myself, but what will happen if I stay? More scenes, more sordid quarrels, more agony for her and me, and for the children.”
“The children,” said Albert.
“The children? Who are you to talk about children? What have your children ever given you in the way of happiness, gratitude, or affection? Are they happy to be with you? Do you think they need you? You talk about making the children happy: what do you actually do for Jean-Noël and Josée that’s worthwhile, that actually has an effect on them? You would like to, yes, with all your heart. But what can you do for them? Give them advice? They don’t listen. Tell them about your own experience? They despise it. Offer them friendship? They reject it. My children don’t need me; they’ve got their mother. They love her; they’re like her. For the last eight years there hasn’t been a single night when I’ve gone to bed without praying that it would be my last. I waited for the children to grow up. I hoped for a
“You wake up to see a woman sleeping in your bed and the first thing you ask yourself is: ‘What’s she doing here?’ That’s how I’ve felt for years and years.”
“There’s that overwhelming depression,” said Augustin, “at the thought of going home in the evening.”
“Only breathing freely far away from her.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing that you’re being cruel, untruthful, wicked, and hypocritical but not being able to do anything at all about it. I couldn’t say this to anyone else in the world. I’d be ashamed. But you must understand me. Did you ever know why I married Alix? No? I was in love with a woman, never mind her name. She is dead. You, Augustin, had married Claire. Alix was living with you. I saw her constantly. I knew she loved me and it made me feel grateful to her. There’s something overpowering about a woman who wants to be loved: that face always lifted up to you, that anxious look, that obsessive desire. It gives you a feeling of limitless power. I thought it could replace love.”
“It does,” said Albert.
“Sometimes,” murmured Augustin.
“Yes, but in that case both of you have to be disappointedand resigned, like you and your wife,” said Alain sharply as he turned toward Augustin, who flinched and said nothing. “But when one of you still loves, still suffers, and the other can only watch the loving and the suffering—ah, that’s hell! I’ve been thinking about going for years, dreaming about leaving her! For years, do you understand? But I can’t leave them wandering the streets; they only have me … If only I could make her happy, but she’d be a hundred, a thousand times happier if I were far away. Oh, if only you could, would dare, help me! We were young together, and our lives are similar. Do you want to punish me?”
“Alain,” said Augustin, raising his head, “you lied just now … This woman isn’t dead, is she? Are you going away to be with her?”
“Yes. She’s married. Her husband’s taking her away. I want to live with her. I must. I’ve only ever been happy with her. I married Alix in despair, out of spite; then I found her again; she’s been my mistress for more than eight years. If I have to stay here, I’ll never forgive Alix. Our life would become a living hell. You’re my brothers: you should love me above duty, above morality. Yes, I know what I’m asking seems cruel and senseless—abandoning a wife who is beyond reproach, abandoning my children. But what can I do, if they’re like strangers to me? I’ve tried desperately to love them, without being able to. The other one … the other one. I love her! She has a child by me. My life is with her. Think about it …I’m asking you … for some money, Albert, and for you, Augustin, to put up with Claire’s reproaches and Alix’s tears. If I stay, what will happen? Nothing but misery for my wife, my mistress, and myself. If my sacrifice would make Alix happy, perhaps I’d give in and resign myself, but what will happen if I stay? More scenes, more sordid quarrels, more agony for her and me, and for the children.”
“The children,” said Albert.
“The children? Who are you to talk about children? What have your children ever given you in the way of happiness, gratitude, or affection? Are they happy to be with you? Do you think they need you? You talk about making the children happy: what do you actually do for Jean-Noël and Josée that’s worthwhile, that actually has an effect on them? You would like to, yes, with all your heart. But what can you do for them? Give them advice? They don’t listen. Tell them about your own experience? They despise it. Offer them friendship? They reject it. My children don’t need me; they’ve got their mother. They love her; they’re like her. For the last eight years there hasn’t been a single night when I’ve gone to bed without praying that it would be my last. I waited for the children to grow up. I hoped for a
Similar Books
