Chapter X: Contradictions

The young woman was the first to break the silence.

"Let us drop the subject, monsieur," she said, sighing heavily. "It arouses too many painful recollections."

"Yes, let us drop it, madame, for I, too, am tortured by many painful recollections from which I am ever striving to escape, for it is cowardly and degrading to permit one's mind to dwell continually upon persons one hates and despises. Ah, madame, I sincerely hope you may never know that mixture of regret, aversion, and love, which renders one's life for ever miserable."

The young woman listened to her companion with profound astonishment, for, when he spoke of himself, it seemed as if he must also be speaking of her, so identical had been their experience; but the reserve which she must necessarily display in her intercourse with a comparative stranger, prevented any such admission on her part; so, quite as much to conceal her real feelings as to gratify her growing curiosity, she remarked:

"You speak of mingled aversion and love, monsieur. How can one both love and hate the same person or thing? Is such a strange contradiction possible?"

"Ah, madame, is not the human heart the greatest of mysteries,--the strangest of enigmas? Ever since the world began, the inexplicable attraction which opposites have for each other has been admitted. How often we see a person who is weak admire one who is strong, and one who is violent and impetuous seek out one who is gentle and timid! What is the cause of this? Is it the desire for a contrast? Or, is it the charm of overcoming a certain difficulty? Nobody knows. The fact remains that persons whose characters are diametrically opposed to our own exercise an inexplicable attraction over us,--inexplicable, yes; for we curse them, we pity them, we despise them, and we hate them; and yet, we can not do without them; or, if they escape us, we regret them as much as we hate them, and forthwith begin to dream of the impossible, that is to say, of acquiring sufficient influence over them to transform them, to imbue them with our own ideas and tastes. Dreams, idle dreams these are, of course, which only serve to make us forget the sad reality for a brief time."

"I, too, have often heard of these strange contradictions. They are the more incomprehensible to me, as the only chance of happiness seems to me to consist in perfect congeniality of temperament."

The young woman paused suddenly, and blushed, deeply regretting words which might be construed as an advance made to a comparative stranger (though this had really been furthest from her thoughts), especially after both she and he had commented on the remarkable similarity in their tastes. But this fear on her part was entirely unnecessary, as the turn the conversation had taken seemed to have plunged her companion into a profound reverie.

A few minutes afterwards, the carriage stopped at the corner of the Rue de Rivoli, and the driver got down from the box to open the door.

"What! are we here already?" exclaimed the stranger, arousing himself; then, motioning the coachman to close the door again, he said:

"I sincerely hope you will pardon me for having made such poor use of the last few minutes of the interview you have been kind enough to grant me, but I yielded almost unconsciously to the influence of certain memories. You will not refuse, I trust, to indemnify me by permitting me to see you again, and to have the honour of calling on you at your own home."

"What you ask, monsieur, is impossible for quite a number of reasons."

"Do not refuse my request, I beg of you. There seem to be so many points of similarity in our lot; besides, there are still many things I would like to tell you in relation to my South American journey, and the cause of it. Our meeting, too, has been so extraordinary, that I feel sure all these reasons will decide you to grant the favour I ask, though I should not dare to insist in the name of the very slight service which I was so fortunate as to be able to render you, and which you are extremely kind to even remember."

"I am not ungrateful, believe me, monsieur. I admit, too, that it would give me great pleasure to see you again, and yet, I shall probably be obliged to renounce this hope."

"Ah, madame--"

"Well, I will propose this, monsieur. To-day is Monday--"

"Yes, madame."

"Be here under the arcade at noon on Thursday."

"I will, madame, I will."

"If I am not here at the end of an hour,--which is more than probable,--we shall never see each other again, monsieur."

"But why do you say that, madame?"

"It is impossible for me to explain now, monsieur; but, whatever happens, you must rest assured that I have been very glad of an opportunity to thank you for a service I shall always remember with gratitude."

"What, madame, I may never see you again, yet I am leaving you without even knowing your name."

"If we are never to meet again, monsieur, what is the use of knowing my name? If, on the contrary, we do meet here again on Thursday I will tell you who I am, and, if you still desire it, we will continue the acquaintance begun in a different hemisphere, and renewed by an unexpected meeting."

"I thank you for this hope, madame, uncertain though it be. I will not insist further, so farewell,--until Thursday, madame."

"Until Thursday, monsieur."

And the two separated.