LE SERPENT "The Snake"

At the dawn of the last century, everyone in Dijon knew Madame la Présidente de C—. She was the belle of the town: all dimples, lace, and painted smiles, with that same little serpent slithering across her lap like a favored lapdog. She would pet it in public, let it curl against her breasts as though it were her child—or her lover.

“This snake,” she declared one evening to a curious visitor, “is my dearest friend on earth.”

The lady, caught somewhere between horror and fascination, pressed her for an explanation. And Madame—eyes glassy with memory, half-ecstatic, half-condemned—obliged.

“Once upon a time, madame, I loved a man more fiercely than my own soul. He went away to gather his laurels, leaving me with a promise: at set hours, though divided by distance, we would each lock ourselves away, consecrate ourselves only to our tenderness.

“And so it was. One late afternoon, at the appointed time, I retreated to the flower-house at the far end of my garden. The air was heavy, overripe. I shut the door, and at my feet—God help me—there lay this serpent. White, glistening, like some incarnate omen.

It barred my way, coiling like a sentinel. Yet it did not threaten—it begged. Its eyes pleaded, its body bent in strange arabesques, as though it swore it would do me no harm. I hesitated. Then I touched it. It pressed its head against my hand, soft as silk. I dared lift it to my knees. It curled, shivered, pretended to sleep.

“And then—ah!—the sorrow seized me. I wept, though I could not say why. My tears fell, baptizing its white body. It stirred, raised its head to my breast, pressed against me as if to drink. It caressed me there—then fell back in a swoon, lifeless.

“I screamed: My lover is dead!

“I fled the pavilion but could not abandon the creature. Something bound me to it, invisible, inexorable. And soon—eight days later—the news arrived: my beloved had indeed perished in battle, struck down at the very hour the serpent had appeared to me.

“Since that day, I have never let it leave my side. Even in marriage I made it a condition: no man shall touch, no man shall take, this serpent. It remains with me until my death.”

At this, Madame drew the pale snake to her bosom, let it writhe across her silk, and coaxed it to play its little tricks like a pampered spaniel—while the visiting lady looked on, wide-eyed, as though she had glimpsed the Devil himself.

O Providence! Your decrees are cruel riddles. And if this tale is true—as all Burgundy swears it is—then perhaps love itself is but a serpent, coiled white and cold, feeding from the breast until the heart stills.