Oh, tell me that it’s a dream.
Isn’t it true that all of this
is a dream?
Owen
Poor human reason,
which cannot distinguish dream
from wakefulness, or illusion from reality.
Alfred Mercier12
My dear Édouard, or fifteen years the most devoted amity has linked us to one another.
Which is to say that, for fifteen years, you have sustained me and consoled me; which is to say that, for fifteen years, you, so grave, so positive, so superior to the impetuous distractions of our age, have listened patiently and consoled with perseverance the chagrins of an unhappy young man whom a disorderly imagination has dragged incessantly far from the real and the reasonable, whom an irresistible, deadly, extraordinary force never wearies of delivering to the consequences of a Romantic sensibility full of exasperation.
Édouard, Édouard, now more than ever I have need of that amity.
Listen, for I shall write to you; I dare not go to find you to tell you in person, so ashamed am I. I shall write you a story in which you will not be able to believe. It gives birth to laughter and scorn on the visage of anyone who hears it; they treat me as a madman. But you, my friend, you won’t laugh, will you? You won’t tell me that I’m a madman, a maniac, a dreamer; that would hurt me a great deal, and you’re so afraid of hurting me.
Then again, it doesn’t matter that they call me by all those insulting names, which drive me to me despair, which make me clench my firsts in rage and stamp my foot on the ground; it doesn’t matter that they slander my belief; I still experienced what I experienced, and I still saw what I saw. Oh, if it were permissible, for me, to call it into doubt…but the memory of that execrable scene pursues me so relentlessly...
I can’t get away from it…it’s impossible. It’s there, always there!
You know, Édouard, when one is suffering as I am suffering, one has every right to lament that no one can believe in his suffering! Yes, yes, one has every right to complain!
My friend, you don’t know everything about my difficulties. You know about the obstacles that were opposed to my marriage to Laura, and how they became more numerous and more insurmountable every day, but what you don’t know is that the young woman was frightened by seeing love accompanied by so many torments. She raised her eyes with terror toward the future, and then she looked behind her with regret. I read it in her heart; she preferred a negative but peaceful happiness to the bitter intoxication of a sublime and ardent tenderness full of trouble and agitation.
In consequence, I took the decision to suffer alone, and not to associate that frail creature with the bleak destiny that weighs upon me. I wrote to tell her that I was renouncing her, since my love was causing her so much anguish. She replied in a letter moist with tears, in which she accepted my sacrifice.
Oh, I offered it to her in all sincerity—Heaven is my witness! And yet, Édouard, my dear Édouard, I cannot tell you how much harm she did me by accepting that sacrifice!
You have often told me that a good deed, a great act of courage, sustains the soul and renders the sacrifices imposed by duty less harsh. I confess, my friend, that that has not been my experience. But at least I have recognized the justice of another of your observations: that study is the only charm that soothes mental troubles. When one identifies with imaginary individuals, when one appropriates their chagrins, when one makes them weep over their misfortunes, when one softens sensations and torments that have become communal to them and us, it seems that one is not alone in suffering, that one is pouring out one’s suffering into the bosom of a friend and that a secret voice is sympathizing, encouraging and consoling.
Two months ago I was spending the night writing beside a blazing fire. My ideas were flowing rapidly; pages covered in my large untidy scrawl had piled up on my desk. They were full of lugubrious thoughts, bizarre events and inconsequential, conflicting sentences of no interest to anyone but me, or you—you, Édouard, to whom a unique friendship has rendered my extravagant ideas, the impetuosity of my imagination and my fits of despair familiar.
When morning came, my blood was not refreshed and my head had not become any less heavy, but I had escaped from myself for a whole night, and that was a good deal. The day before, I had ordered that a bath should be prepared for me, Dr. Fernand having recommended me more than ever to make frequent use of it. I only just had time to go into the bathroom because my lamp, for lack of oil, was about to go out, and I was scarcely in the water before it threw off one last gleam and left me in complete darkness.
Here, my dear Édouard, I renew the plea I made just now: don’t laugh at me, don’t call what you’re about to read into question, for you’d be doing me an injury!
I didn’t take long to relax into the comfort of the bath. A soft warmth refreshed my limbs, tensed by long sleeplessness, by relaxing them. My forehead, burning with chagrin, was enveloped by a benevolent moisture. My ideas were suspended, without ceasing entirely, and my eyes closed under a gradual drowsiness.
I had been in a delightful situation for a few moments, when I thought I could hear a vague murmur somewhere in the vicinity. It even seemed that some unknown light was visible through my eyelids, although I felt so content that I didn’t have the strength to open my eyes, to move or to stammer a single word; however astonishing the commotion might be that was happening close by, I could not pluck up the resolution to discover the reason for it.
A shock burst forth like a thunderbolt, but sharper and more harrowing.
I woke up with a start; in front of me stood a mocking and intimidating individual. He was looking at me as no human eye has ever gazed.
The sight of him suffocated me; it made me suffer indescribably.
He advanced his left hand and showed me the antique ring that, as you know, I bought from a Jew.
Then the specter passed the ring before my eyes, as if to prove to me that it really was mine; he gave me time to consider the fluting of the large ring and the two animal figures engraved on the black stone.
After that he raised his right hand; he showed me three fingers; he pronounced the word “Three,” struck me hard on the head and disappeared.
When I recovered consciousness I was in bed, surrounded by people who were caring for me. Attracted by a piercing scream, they had come running; I had been found in the bath, half-drowned; a few seconds later, and it would have been all over. Why, alas, did they bring me back to life?
My first words were to ask my manservant for the casket in which my jewelry, including the fatal ring, was kept. On receiving that order, he went pale and trembled in every limb. A bitter laugh contracted his features.
“May Satan strike me dead!” he stammered. “You know everything!”
I thought that the wretch was referring to the dream I had had shortly before, because I still thought that it was a dream.
Then, suddenly, another idea—an absurd idea—passed like a flash of lightning through my imagination. I clung to it urgently. The apparition of a little while ago was a joke, played by one of my friends; they must have involved Antoine.
“Yes, I know everything!” I exclaimed. “You shall be punished as you deserve.”
Antoine went out, in despair. Five minutes later I heard an explosion. I ran to my servant’s room. He had blown his brains out.
He had left a note for me: Monsieur, I’m a wretch. I’ve stolen your jewels. I’m dishonored; I shall die.
On reading that, I was overtaken by an unbearable distress, and a fever. I had to take to my bed, in a pitiful state.
Édouard, as truly as I believe in God, the figure that I had seen the night before leapt to my gaze all night long—except that he only showed me two fingers, and his vibrant voice pronounced the word “Two.”
Now, his mysterious speech and gestures were only too clear to me. The fatal ring was to cost the lives of three people. One of them had already met his fate.
During my convalescence, I was told that a young woman, poorly dressed and carrying a small child in her arms had come several times to ask for me. She had begged insistently that she be allowed to speak to me. I ordered that she should be brought to me if she came back again.
An hour later, she was shown into my room.
Casting my eyes over that unfortunate woman, pale, save for her eyes reddened with tears, hardly able to stand up, I understood that she had suffered a great deal, even more from moral troubles than physical ones.
“Antoine loved me,” she said—and her knees buckled underneath her. If an armchair had not happened to be there, she would have fallen on the floor. “It was for me that he stole. It’s because of me that he’s dead. I’m…this is his son...”
The poor young woman’s sobs broke my heart.
“Here, Monsieur, take this ring back. It’s the only gift of his that I have left. I hadn’t yet sold it in order to live. Take it back, Monsieur, but don’t denounce me to the law. What would become of my child, the only thing that remains to me? What would become of Antoine’s son, if they threw me in prison?
She handed the ring to me, and I, overwhelmed by the memory of my vision, despairing in the realization that she had told the truth, chilled by fear at the thought of the misfortunes that she was still anticipating, remained motionless, absorbed by my lugubrious thoughts.
Poor creature! She thought that I was rejecting her supplications; she threw herself at my feet, seized my hand and bathed it with tears.
The unfortunate woman’s agony brought me out of my reverie. “That ring must be destroyed,” I exclaimed, “in order that it should not be deadly to anyone else. Hurry up, give it to me!”
The child had taken it from his mother’s hand, in order to play with it; she had surrendered it listlessly. He had raised it to his lips.
Suddenly, he uttered a groan, stiffened convulsively and fell back. His mother was no longer holding anything but a cadaver.
The ring enclosed a mortal poison in its gem.
And the horrible figure that was pursuing me appeared above the despairing mother. This time, he did not speak, but his long finger held up a single digit.
Who will the third victim be?
Édouard, this is an idea that has lit up within me for the first time: an idea inspired in me by Heaven, I’m sure of it.
What if I were to put an end to the misfortunes caused by that infernal ring? I’ve lost everything that attached me to the earth. Existence weighs upon me; it has burdened me. What if I were to deflect the fatality that threatens someone else and draw it down voluntarily upon my own head?
The phantom has predicted it, and I am only too forcefully compelled to believe its predictions. It still needs another victim—only one! Will Providence punish me for sacrificing myself in this situation?
Already, for a long time, I’ve wanted to free myself from life. The fear of celestial wrath held me back. Now, God will bless me for dying.
Look! Here’s the phantom coming back; he’s giving me a sign that I can die.
Adieu!