CHAPTER LXXX.
And one day, when September was more than half over, I realized,
because of the particularly torturing anxiety I felt when I waked,
that I must no longer defer the matter--the term which I had allotted
to myself was over.
In my heart of hearts I had more than half determined what my decision
was to be; but before it could be rendered effective it was necessary
for me to avow it, and I promised myself that the day should not pass
away without my having, as courageously as possible, accomplished that
task. It was my intention to first confide in my brother; for although
I feared that in the beginning he would oppose me with all his power,
I hoped that he would finally take my part and help me carry the day.
Therefore, after the mid-day dinner, when the sun was hottest, I
carried my pen and paper into my uncle's garden, and I locked myself
in there for the purpose of writing my letter. It was one of my
boyhood habits to study or write in the open air, and often I chose
the most singular places--tree-tops or the roof--for my work.
It was a hot and cloudless September afternoon. The old garden, silent
and melancholy as ever, gave me, strangely enough, more than the
customary feeling of regret that I was so far away from my mother,
that all of summer would pass without my seeing my home and the
flowers in the beloved little yard. And then, too, what I was upon the
point of writing would result in separating me farther from all that I
loved, and for that reason I felt extraordinarily sad. It seemed to me
that there was something a little funereal in the air of the garden,
as if the walls, the plum trees, the vine-covered bower, even the very
alfalfa fields beyond the garden, were vitally interested in this, the
first grave act of my life which was about to take place under their
eyes.
For the purpose of writing I hesitated between two or three places,
all blazing hot and almost shadeless. It was my way of gaining time,
an attempt to delay writing that letter which, with the ideas I then
had, would render my decision, once I had announced it, irrevocable.
The sun-baked earth was already strewn with red vine branches and
withered leaves; the holly-hocks and dahlias, grown tall as trees, had
a few meagre blossoms at the tops of their long stalks; the blazing
sun perfected and turned to gold the musk-scented grapes that always
ripened a little late; but in spite of the excessive heat and the
exquisite limpid blue of the sky one felt that summer was over.
I finally selected the arbor at the end of the garden for my purpose.
Its vines were stripped of their leaves, but the steel-blue
butterflies and the wasps still came and posted themselves upon the
tendrils of the grape-vines.
There in the calm and tranquil solitude, in the summer-like silence
filled with the musical chirp of insects, I wrote and timidly signed
my compact with the sea.
Of the letter itself I remember very little; but I recall distinctly
the emotion with which I enclosed it in its envelope--I felt as if I
had forever sealed my destiny.
After a few moments of deep reverie I wrote the address--my brother's
name and the name of a country in the far Orient where he then was--on
the envelope. There was now nothing more to do save to take it to the
village post-office; but I remained seated there in the arbor for a
long time in a dreamy mood. I leaned against the warm wall where the
lizards ran back and forth, and held upon my knees, with a feeling of
uncertainty and dismay, the little square of paper wherein I had
settled my future. Then I was seized with a longing to look towards
the horizon, to have a glimpse of the great spaces beyond the garden;
and I put my foot into the familiar breach in the wall by means of
which I often mounted, in order to watch the flight of elusive
butterflies, and, with the aid of my hands, I raised myself to the top
of the wall and leaned there propped up by my elbows. The same well-
known prospect greeted me: the hillsides covered with red vines, the
wooded mountains whose trees were rapidly being stripped of their
yellow leaves, and above, perched high, the noble reddish-brown ruin
of Castelnau. And in the nearer distance was Bories with its old
rounded porch white with lime-wash; and as I looked at it I seemed to
hear the plaintive refrain: "Ah! Ah! the good, good story!" sung in a
strange voice, and at the same time there appeared to me the vision of
the pinkish-yellow butterfly which two years before I had pricked with
a pin, and placed under glass in my little museum.
It drew near the hour for the ancient country diligence, that took the
letters away from the village, to depart, and I scrambled down from
the wall, and after locking the garden gate, I slowly directed my
steps towards the post-office.
Like one with eyes fixed upon a vision, I walked along without taking
notice of anything or any one. My spirit was wandering far away, in
the fern-carpeted forests of the delicious isle, along the sands of
gloomy Senegal where had lived the uncle who had interested himself in
my museum, and across the South Pacific Ocean where the dolphins were
passing.
The assured nearness and certainty of these things intoxicated me; for
the first time in my existence the world and life seemed to open
before me; my way was illuminated by a light altogether new to it: it
is true the light was a little mournful, a little sad, but it was
powerful nevertheless, and penetrated to the far distant horizon where
lie old age and death.
Many little childish images obtruded themselves from time to time into
my lofty dream; I saw myself in a sailor's uniform walking upon the
sun-blistered quays of tropical lands; and I prefigured my home-
comings, after perilous voyages, bringing with me cases filled to the
brim with wonderful things out of which cockroaches escaped as they
had done formerly in Jeanne's garden when her father's boxes were
unpacked.
But suddenly a pang went through my heart: those returns from distant
countries could not take place for many years--the faces welcoming me
home would be changed by time! Instantly I pictured those beloved
faces to myself; in a wan vision I saw them all together. Although its
members received me with smiles of joyous welcome, it was a sad group
to look upon, for wrinkles seamed every brow, and my mother had white
curls such as she has to-day. And my great aunt Bertha, already so
old, would she, too, be there? With a sort of uneasiness, I was
rapidly making a calculation of my aunt Bertha's age when I arrived at
the post-office.
I did not hesitate, however; with a hand that trembled only a little I
slipped my letter into the box, and the die was cast.
