The Call of the Blood

Maurice leaned forward on the table and looked at his wife with

intensity.

"I hope so, but I don't think it would be for that--I mean because I

thought the deed might not have been avoided. I think I should forgive

because I pitied so, because I know how desperately unhappy I should be

myself if I were to do a hateful thing, a thing that was exceptional,

that was not natural to my nature as I had generally known it. When one

really does love cleanliness, to have thrown one's self down deliberately

in the mud, to see, to feel, that one is soiled from head to foot--that

must be terrible. I think I should forgive because I pitied so. What do

you say, Maurice?"

It was like a return to their talk in London at Caminiti's restaurant,

when Hermione and Artois discussed topics that interested them, and

Maurice listened until Hermione appealed to him for his opinion. But now

he was more deeply interested than his companions.

"I don't know," he said. "I don't know about pitying and forgiving, but I

expect you're right, Hermione."

"How?"

"In what you say about--about the person who's done the wrong thing

feeling awful afterwards. And I think Monsieur Artois is right,

too--about the hour of madness. I'm sure he is right. Sometimes an hour

comes and one seems to forget everything in it. One seems not to be

really one's self in it, but somebody else, and--and--"

Suddenly he seemed to become aware that, whereas Hermione and Artois had

been considering a subject impersonally, he was introducing the personal

element into the conversation. He stopped short, looked quickly from

Hermione to Artois, and said: "What I mean is that I imagine it's so, and that I've known fellows--in

London, you know--who've done such odd things that I can only explain it

like that. They must have--well, they must have gone practically mad for

the moment. You--you see what I mean, Hermione?"

The question was uneasy.

"Yes, but I think we can control ourselves. If we couldn't, remorse would

lose half its meaning. I could never feel remorse because I had been

mad--horror, perhaps, but not remorse. It seems to me that remorse is our

sorrow for our own weakness, the heart's cry of 'I need not have done the

hateful thing, and I did it, I chose to do it!' But I could pity, I could

pity, and forgive because of my pity."

Gaspare came out with coffee.

"And then, Emile, you must have a siesta," said Hermione. "This is a

tiring day for you. Maurice and I will leave you quite alone in the

sitting-room."