We hired an apartment on Boulevard Montmartre; it was rather expensive, but very attractive. We could not take possession for three months. Meanwhile, my wife was in a most delightful mood, save for the petty discussions which occur between the most closely attached couples; for after all, we are not perfect. MyEugénie was as she used to be in the earlier days of our married life; she never mentioned Ernest or Marguerite, and I did not tell her that I went sometimes to see them.
One lovely winter morning we determined to go to see our daughter. We could not bear to wait until spring to embrace our little Henriette. No sooner had we formed the plan than I went out to hire a cabriolet for the whole day. I provided a cold chicken, a pie and a bottle of bordeaux; things which are difficult to procure at a nurse’s house, but which are never out of place anywhere. Eugénie wore a large bonnet which protected her from the wind, and a large, thick cloak; I wrapped myself in my own cloak, simply leaving my hands free to drive; and we started for Livry.
It was a beautiful drive, the air was sharp, but the sun shone brightly. And we had, what was better still, love and good spirits for travelling companions; so that we made the journey merrily enough. When my hands were too cold, Eugénie took the reins and drove for me.
We sang and laughed and ate in our cabriolet; we were our own masters; there were only we two; no tiresome coachman behind to grumble if we went too fast or if we whipped the horse, or to sneer as he counted the kisses we exchanged. It is so pleasant for people who love each other to be alone!
We drove along the outskirts of the famous forest of Bondy, which is much less famous to-day, because there are fewer thieves in the forest and more in the salons. In due time we reached Livry, a village where there are almost no cottages, a town where there are few houses. We found our nurse’s house, and made a triumphal entry into a yard full of manure, mud and pools of water; what the peasants call piqueux. My wife had already alighted from the carriage; she had spied the nurse witha little one in her arms; and she ran to her, and seized the child, crying:
“This is my daughter! I know her!”
For my part, I confess that I should never have known her. When my daughter left us, she was three days old; and I consider that at that age all children resemble each other. She was now four months; one could begin to distinguish something; but I should never have been able to tell whether she was my daughter, or the nurse’s child, who was three months older; mothers never make a mistake.
Eugénie examined her daughter admiringly and insisted that she looked like me already. With the best will in the world, I could detect no resemblance; and although I felt that I should love my daughter dearly, frankly, I could as yet see nothing adorable about her.
What I admired was the corpulence and robust health of our nurse. That woman surely had strength enough to nurse four children at once; and as I contemplated her fat cheeks and her broad chest, I said, like Diderot: “One could kiss her for six weeks without kissing her twice in the same place.”
I had done well to bring eatables, for we found nothing there but eggs, milk and pork; rustic delicacies, but not succulent. I ate with the peasants, while my wife held her daughter and crooned over her. Eugénie said that I was a glutton, that I preferred the pie to my daughter. I was very fond of both. I admit that I was unable to arouse any enthusiasm for a little creature who could not speak and could not do anything but make faces; but my heart told me that I should be none the less a good father, for all that. Exaggeration leads one wide of the truth, and enthusiasm does not demonstrate real feeling.
We went to walk about the neighborhood. We did not admire the verdure, because it was freezing weather; but we discovered some lovely spots and views, which must have been delightful in summer; and some fields too, where it must have been very pleasant to roll about when the grass had grown.
We returned and sat down in front of a snapping fire; one can warm oneself so luxuriantly in front of the huge fireplaces that we find in the country; they are the only things that our excellent ancestors had which I regret.
We ate again, for we always return to that at last, and always with pleasure; then we embraced the child, the nurse, everybody, and returned to the cabriolet. It was almost five o’clock, and in winter darkness comes on early.
At night, the cold seemed more intense. Eugénie and I sat close together. My cloak, which was very large, was wrapped around us both; we tried in every way to keep warm. Eugénie sat on my knee and drove; I made no objection; it was almost dark. Suddenly the horse stopped, and Eugénie and I concluded that we were off the road. I had only a very vague idea where we were; but the horse, finding that he was no longer guided by the reins, had turned aside, and was standing across the road, facing the ditch.
We laughed over our plight and our distraction, which might have landed us in the ditch. But luckily our horse was not in love. I took the reins again, I steered the carriage into the right road, and we returned to Paris, thinking that it had been a very short day, and fully determined to go to see the nurse again.
A few days after this visit to Livry, on returning home, I found Ernest in the salon talking with my wife. I had often urged him to come to see me, and he had never done so before. I was greatly surprised to find that myEugénie was making herself very agreeable; I feared that she would treat him coldly at least. But I soon understood why she had not laid aside her usual gracious manner: Ernest had given his family name only, and I had not mentioned that to my wife.
“Here is one of your friends, Monsieur Firmin, who has been waiting for you a long while,” said Eugénie when I appeared. “I have never had the pleasure of seeing monsieur before. I think that he was not at our wedding.”
“That is true,” I said, taking his hand. “I confess that—that I forgot him. On that day a man is permitted to have a poor memory.”
I was a little embarrassed. I dared not ask Ernest about his wife, for I was certain that Eugénie did not know that her visitor was the lover of my former neighbor. I began hastily to talk about the theatre and literature; I led Ernest to his favorite ground, and he told me all the news of the wings. But suddenly he exclaimed:
“I was very sorry not to be at home when you called the day before yesterday. My wife told me that you waited for me a long while.”
“Is monsieur married?” Eugénie instantly inquired.
Ernest replied by simply bowing. Then he continued:
“I was all the more vexed, because I had a box at the Vaudeville to give you, which perhaps would have entertained madame.”
Eugénie bowed, and I tried to lead the conversation back to the theatre; but Ernest, having no suspicion of my apprehension, soon said to me:
“Marguerite, who used to be so fond of the theatre, is beginning to tire of it; I take her so often!”
At the name of Marguerite, my wife turned pale; then she said to me with a forced smile:
“Can it be that monsieur is Monsieur Ernest?”
“Yes, this is Monsieur Ernest Firmin, whom I have mentioned to you many times.”
“Ah yes! I know, and whosewifeused to live in this house.”
Ernest bowed again. I held my peace, but I felt that I was blushing, for Eugénie had said the wordwifein a tone of irony which hurt me. There was malice in it, and I could not understand how she could make malicious remarks to a person who had never injured her.
Luckily Ernest, I thought, did not detect my wife’s meaning. He continued to talk of literature and theatres. Eugénie did not say another word, and her manner was as cold as it had been affable when I arrived. I carried on the conversation with Ernest. At last he rose and said good-bye; and, as he took leave of my wife, he offered to send her tickets sometimes if it would afford her pleasure. Eugénie replied that she did not care for the theatre; but that reply was made in such a contemptuous and discourteous tone that Ernest could not fail to be hurt by it. However, he simply glanced at me, half smiled, pressed my hand significantly and took his leave.
I expected a quarrel or scene of some sort; for I was beginning to discover that when one is married, one must often expect something. Eugénie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and betook myself to my study. I passed the rest of the day without seeing her.
But, at dinner time, annoyed that she did not leave her room, I decided to go in search of her. I found her sitting in a chair and weeping bitterly. I ran to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.
“What does all this mean, Eugénie? Why are you crying? What is it that causes your sorrow?”
“You, monsieur.”
“I?”
“Ah! you make me very unhappy!”
“I make you unhappy? I must confess that I did not expect such a reproach. When I try to gratify all your desires, all your tastes; when I have no other will than yours, I make you unhappy! Upon my word, women are most unjust! What would you say, pray, Eugénie, if you had a scolding, capricious, dissipated, or gambling husband?”
“Mon Dieu! I am well aware, monsieur, that a husband thinks that he has done his duty when he has given his wife the bonnet and shawl that she wants; but for my part, I should prefer that you should have all the faults that you just mentioned, if you would be faithful to me.”
“And you reproach me with being unfaithful! you address such a reproach as that to me!”
“Do you dare to deny that you have been going to see your former neighbor, this Madame Ernest?”
“No, madame, I have never denied it; why should I deny anything when I have done nothing wrong?”
“Still, you have not told me of it, and but for that gentleman’s call, I should not have known it.”
“I have not told you of it because your absurd suspicions obliged me to keep it secret. I felt sure that you would discover something wrong in it; so that it was useless for me to tell you a thing which can hardly be said to concern you.”
“Ah! so it doesn’t concern me that you go to make love to other women! What a horrible thing to say!”
“Eugénie, you are perfectly absurd! I feel very sorry for you!”
“When one discovers the intrigues of these gentlemen, one is absurd. Will you say again that her lover is alwaysthere when you go there? It is a pity that he himself said that you waited for him a long time. Idiot! not to see why you go to his house when he isn’t there!”
“Oh! how patient a man must be, to listen to such nonsense!”
“I am sure that you go every day to see your old neighbor, this Marguerite. I do not know her, but I detest her, I have a perfect horror of her. Her Monsieur Ernest had better not think of bringing her here, for I will turn her out of doors,—Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! after being married only fifteen months, to have a mistress!”
She hid her face in her hands and began to sob again. Her tears made me forgive her injustice. I was about to go to her and to try to make her listen to reason, when she suddenly sprang to her feet, saying:
“Very well, monsieur, if you have a mistress, I warn you that I will have a lover.”
I confess that those words produced an exceedingly disagreeable effect on me; I was well aware that they were said in anger; but I would never have believed that Eugénie could conceive such a thought.
“Madame,” I said, in a tone in which there was no trace of gentleness, “do not drive me beyond bounds, or wear out my patience. I am willing to tell you once more that I have no mistress, that Madame Ernest never was and never will be my mistress, that I very rarely go to see them, and that it is a mere chance that Ernest is not there when I go. Indeed, as he is not a government clerk, it is impossible to be sure when he will be absent. But now, madame, remember this: even if I had one or several mistresses, if I neglected or totally abandoned my family, that would give you no right at all to have a lover, A man’s position and his wife’s are entirely different. I may have love-affairs, waste my fortune, ruin my health;that will not dishonor you, madame, and will not bring strange children into the bosom of your family. It is not the same with the conduct of a wife; a single misstep ruins her in the eyes of society, and may compel her husband’s children to share their bread with her seducer’s children.”
“That is all very convenient, monsieur; it proves that you can do what you please and that wives have simply to pass their lives weeping. Is that fair, monsieur?”
“If you consider that too hard, too cruel, why do you women marry? You should know what you undertake when you take that step.”
“You are right, it would be much better not to marry—to do like Mademoiselle Marguerite; then one is free to follow one’s inclinations, to drop people and take them up again at pleasure.”
I made no reply. I paced the floor back and forth. Meanwhile Eugénie had ceased to weep and had wiped her eyes; a moment later she came to me and laid her hand gently on my arm:
“Henri, perhaps I was a little wrong. But if this woman never has been, and is not now your mistress, if you do not love her—swear to me that you do not love her.”
“Yes, I swear to you that I do not love her, and that I have never been her lover.”
“Well then, my dear, to prove that, you must promise me that you will never in your life put your foot inside their door again.”
“No, I am very sorry, but I will not promise that.”
“Why not, if you do not love the woman?”
“It is just because I have no relations with Madame Ernest that I propose to continue to see her and her husband just when it suits me. Besides, listen, my dearlove: to-day you are jealous of her and don’t want me to go there any more; in a few days you will be jealous of someone else, and you will forbid me to go somewhere else. Things cannot go on so. I love you, I love you as dearly as on the day we married; but I don’t propose to be your slave. There is nothing more ridiculous than a man who does not dare to take a step without his wife’s permission; there is nothing more impertinent for a woman than to say to her husband: ‘You shall not go here or there, because I do not want you to.’”
“But, Henri, I don’t forbid you to go, I simply beg you not to.”
“No, my dear Eugénie; I am distressed to refuse, but I shall go where I please.”
“And you dare to say that you do not love that woman?”
“If I loved her you would never have known that I went there, you would never have heard of her.”
“So you prefer the friendship of those people to my repose and happiness? You sacrifice my peace of mind to them?”
“Your peace of mind should not be disturbed by my visits to Ernest. I say again, I will not give way to absurd suspicions, and I will do as I please.”
“Very good, monsieur; I appreciate your love at its real value now.”
And madame returned to her room; I sat down at the table and ate my dinner. Eugénie did not return; I dined alone. It was the first time since our marriage; alas, I would never have believed that it could happen.
My dinner was soon at an end; nothing takes away the appetite like a dispute. And to dispute with a person whom one loves makes one angry and grieved at the same time.
I went out immediately after dinner. I walked aimlessly, but I walked on and on; nothing is so good as the fresh air to calm ill humor. But it was cold; and I finally went into the Variétés. That is a theatre where there is usually something to laugh at, and it is so pleasant to laugh!
I took a seat in the orchestra. I spied Bélan there, no longer becurled and in a tight-fitting coat, as he always used to be before his marriage, but clad in a full-skirted frock coat, buttoned to the chin, and with a solemn face which in no wise resembled that of a man who was in search of conquests.
Was that the effect of marriage? Could it be that I myself had undergone the same metamorphosis?
I was glad to meet Bélan; I hoped that the meeting would divert my thoughts from my own troubles. I took a seat beside him. The ex-lady-killer was so absorbed in his own reflections that he did not recognize me.
“Well, Bélan, are you enjoying the play?”
“Hallo! it’s my old friend Blémont! What a lucky meeting! Since we have been married, we hardly see each other at all. Ah! we had lots of fun together in the old days, when we were bachelors! those were the good old times!”
“What! do you repent already of being married?”
“No, certainly not; I only said that in jest. Oh! I am very happy; but what I mean is that a married man owes it to himself not to run wild like a bachelor. However, I am exceedingly happy.”
“I congratulate you. How does it happen that madame is not with you?”
“Oh! she is dining out with her mother, at a house where they couldn’t invite me, because I would have made thirteen at the table. I am going to call for her.But as it is a house where they dine very late, Armide told me not to hurry, not to come until between ten and eleven. That is why I came here to pass the time. But how is it with you, my dear Blémont? I thought that you never left your adored wife; everybody speaks of you as a pair of turtledoves.”
“Oh! turtledoves don’t always agree. We have had a little quarrel and I came to the theatre for distraction.”
“The deuce! really? you have had a quarrel? Well, that’s like me. I often have quarrels with Armide, but that doesn’t prevent me from being happy. They are little clouds which soon pass away.”
“And does your mother-in-law still weep all the time?”
“Oh! don’t speak of my mother-in-law! I admit that she is my nightmare; it is she who stirs up her daughter. I know well enough that she doesn’t do it from any bad motive; she is too noble for that. But when one doesn’t come up to the mark in a salutation or in any sort of ceremony, when one does not offer his hand quickly enough, why there is no end to the reproaches and complaints. However, I am very happy; although those devilish Girauds have already tried to make people think that I am a cuckold.”
“What! the Girauds have said——”
“That I am a cuckold. Yes, my friend, they have said that! Whereas, she is a woman of the most rigid principle; and moreover, a woman with whom a man can be perfectly at ease. One of those cold, marble women, you know. When you kiss them, it is exactly as if you didn’t kiss them; it produces the same effect.”
“The deuce! that is very comforting!”
“Oh, I promise you that when I am a cuckold, I shall make no objection to its being advertised. But I knowwhy the Girauds say that: it’s from spite because they weren’t at my wedding.”
“I agree with you. But still, I cannot believe that they have ventured to say——”
“Yes, they have. But let me tell you what pretext they have invented for making such remarks. I told you that, before obtaining Armide’s hand, I thrust aside a lot of rivals, among others a marquis who had six decorations.”
“Yes.”
“Well, instead of taking offence, like the others, because I triumphed over him, the marquis came to me and complimented me frankly, and said with charming affability: ‘You have beaten me, and it is quite right; you are a better man than I; I appreciate you and do you justice. Marry Mademoiselle de Beausire, and allow me to continue to be your friend.’—What do you say to that, eh?”
“That was very obliging.”
“As you can imagine, I was touched by that proceeding. I urged the marquis to come to see us, and he did so; in fact, he comes very often. That is the basis for the slanders of the Girauds. When my wife heard of that, being very strict in such matters, she insisted at once that I should ask the marquis to cease his visits; but I showed my strength of character; I said to the marquis: ‘you come every day, try to come twice a day, and I shall be better pleased than ever.’ He does it. And in this respect, at least, my mother-in-law considers that I did well.”
I made no reply, but I laughed to myself. What selfish creatures we are! we laugh at the misfortunes of others and we desire to be pitied for our own misfortunes. At a quarter-past ten, although there was another play tobe performed, Bélan went away to call for his wife. He was afraid that if he stayed any longer, he should be late and be scolded by his mother-in-law, which however did not prevent him, when he bade me good-night, from saying again that he was very happy.
For several days Eugénie and I hardly spoke; she remained in her bedroom almost all day, and I in my study. In that way we did not dispute, to be sure; but that mode of life was very dismal; it was not for the purpose of living on such terms with my wife that I married her; and I felt that I should certainly regret my bachelor days if it was to continue.
I went more than once to Ernest’s. Ah! what a difference! how happy they were! they were still lovers. Love, pleasure, happiness—those are what they gave to each other; and they were still as light of heart, as much like children, as when they lived under the eaves. Ernest, as a matter of courtesy, asked me about my wife; but I fancied that he was not anxious to see her again; for my part, I dared not urge him to come, although I was careful not to mention my quarrel with Eugénie.
When two people are young, especially when they are fond of each other, they cannot remain on bad terms long. Eugénie and I hovered about each other, but our accursed pride and self-esteem continued to keep us apart. It was a contest between us to see which should give way first;because, doubtless, she did not think she was in the wrong, and I was perfectly sure that I was in the right. But one day, when Eugénie was seated beside me, saying nothing, I threw self-esteem to the winds; I embraced my wife affectionately, and we were reconciled. Ah! such reconciliations are very sweet. However, as they are always the result of quarrels, I consider that they are a pleasure in which one should indulge in moderation. The time for us to move drew near, and I felt that I should regret to leave that house in which I had passed such happy hours. But I kept my regrets to myself, for my wife would have ascribed them to other reasons. For Eugénie, that change was an unalloyed joy. I pretended to share it. I think that her satisfaction was twofold: in the first place, because she was leaving that house; in the second place, because she was moving from that neighborhood, where she knew that we were near the home of Ernest and his wife.
On the eve of the day when we were to move, as everything in our apartment was topsy-turvy, we preferred not to dine there; we could not invite ourselves to dine with Madame Dumeillan, who had not been well for some time; to go to my mother’s might cause her to lose her evening game of whist; so we made up our minds to dine at a restaurant, in a private room. My wife looked forward to it with delight. As my business would detain me quite late in the Tuileries quarter, I arranged to meet Eugénie on the Terrasse des Feuillants; she was to go to our new apartment, and then to meet me at the place appointed, at five o’clock.
I finished my business as quickly as I could, for I did not wish that Eugénie should be at the rendezvous before me, and have to wait for me. I made such haste that it was not half-past four when I reached the Gardenof the Tuileries. No matter, I thought, I will stroll about.
Less than three minutes after I had arrived, I heard a voice which was not unfamiliar to me, say:
“It seems that we are fated always to meet here; it is very strange, really.”
It was Lucile again. I had not seen her since my wedding day. She was dressed very elegantly, and she was alone.
“Is it you, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur, I am obliged to come to the garden to meet you.”
“It is true that in Paris, when people are not looking for each other——”
“And even if they are looking for each other, that is no reason why they should find each other. Have you just been married again, monsieur?”
“No, madame. That is well enough when one is a bachelor—to take a new wife every week.”
“You have reformed now, I suppose?”
“Yes, madame, entirely.”
“I congratulate you. And yet, although you have reformed, you look very much to me as if you were here to keep an appointment.”
“That is true, madame, but appointments do not always mean love-affairs.”
“I don’t know what they mean; but you are waiting for someone, and I’ll bet that it’s a woman.”
“You are not mistaken; moreover, a woman whom I am going to take to dinner in a private room at a restaurant.”
“You have reformed with a vengeance! But I should have been more surprised to find it the other way. It was well worth while to get married!”
“Madame, I will not prolong your error; it is my wife for whom I am waiting, and whom I agreed to meet here.”
“Your wife! I beg pardon, monsieur, pray receive my apology. I had no suspicion that you had become a Philemon. Come, joking aside, is it really your wife that you are waiting for?”
“Yes, to be sure. What is there so extraordinary in that?”
“Do you mean that you are still in love with your wife?”
“Still! why it seems to me that I was married only yesterday!”
“Bless my soul! how touching!”
Lucile bit her lips with a sneering smile. I had no wish to prolong my conversation with her, although I was certain that my wife would not come so early. I made a motion to bid her adieu; she grasped my arm.
“What, you are going to leave me so soon? Mon Dieu! don’t tremble so; your wife will not come yet.”
“I trust not; for, frankly, I would not like to have her see me talking with you.”
“Would she whip you?”
“No, she wouldn’t do anything; but she is jealous, and it would make her unhappy.”
“She would be very foolish to be jealous of me.”
“That is true; but jealous people often are foolish, you know.”
“Henri, I am going to make a proposition to you.”
“What is it?”
“Take me to dinner instead of your wife. You can tell her this evening that you had an engagement that you couldn’t break.”
“No, I haven’t reached that point yet, thank heaven!”
“Oh! I was only joking, monsieur; I know that you are too virtuous to play such a trick. Have you got ants on your legs?”
“No, but I don’t want to stand here.”
“Very well; let us walk then.”
“I don’t want to walk with you.”
“But what if I don’t choose to leave you?”
“I beg you, Lucile, let me go.”
“Dear me! monsieur assumes his sentimental air. Look you, the garden is free to all; if I choose to walk beside you, you have no right to prevent me. Besides, I am very curious to see your wife. Will she eat me if she finds me with you? Ah! monsieur refuses to answer any more questions; monsieur is angry.”
“Yes, madame, I confess that I don’t understand what motive induces you to act as you are acting. It is pure malice, and it seems to me that I have given you no reason to treat me so.”
“Indeed! it seems so to you, does it? You have a very short memory. It seems to me that I have many reasons for revenging myself on you.”
“Madame, you must have other people to think about who interest you much more than I do; and in the four years since we ceased to see each other, I am surprised that you remember me at all.”
“It is certain that you hardly deserve it. But what would you have? Perhaps that is the reason.”
“Lucile, some other day we will talk as long as you wish; but to-day, I beg you, leave me; don’t stay with me.”
“Ha! ha! you make me laugh!”
I began to walk very fast; Lucile did the same, continuing to talk to me, although I did not reply. I saw that people were staring at us, because I had the aspect ofrunning away from a woman who was pursuing me. I was in dismay. At last I stopped.
“This is a horrible thing that you are doing, Lucile.”
“Well, calm yourself, I will leave you, for you make my heart ache. You start convulsively every time you see a woman! But tell me first, have you my portrait still?”
“Your portrait? Why, I don’t know, I will look.”
“I want you to give it back to me. You can’t care anything about it, and I want it, for it was very like me.”
“I will give it to you.”
“I still live on the same street, but two houses beyond.”
“Very well; I will bring it to you.”
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Ah! that will be very kind of you. Adieu, my dear Henri. Come, don’t be angry any more and don’t forget what you have just promised.”
“No, I——”
The words died out on my lips, for I caught sight of my wife within two yards of us, pale and trembling, and gazing directly at us. And at that moment, Lucile had offered me her hand as she bade me good-bye, and I, overjoyed because she was about to leave me, was shaking hands with her in the friendliest way! Eugénie had seen all that, and Lucile, noticing the sudden change in my features, turned, glanced at my wife, smiled a mocking smile, and walked away, bidding me adieu again in a most unceremonious fashion. Ah! I did not know what I would do to her!
I walked toward my wife. My manner was certainly as embarrassed as if I were guilty.
“So here you are. I was talking with a lady whom I had just met.”
“Yes, I saw that lady, and I heard her too. What is the use, monsieur, of making an appointment with me, of bringing me here to witness such things?”
“Well, upon my word! Now you are going to discover something wrong in this; but I swear——”
“Oh! it costs you nothing to swear! Who is that woman? Is it your former neighbor, Madame Ernest?”
“Oh! no indeed! It’s a woman whom I—whom I knew before I was married.”
“Ah! one of your former mistresses, I suppose.”
“Well! what if that were the fact? As I have not seen her for a long time——”
“You have ceased to see her, and yet she has the assurance to talk with you so freely, holding your hand and looking into the whites of your eyes! And she laughed in my face when she went away. Ah! she has a most impudent manner! But I shall know her again. I had plenty of time to look at her, for you didn’t see me, you were so engrossed with that woman! You promised her something, for she said to you: ‘Don’t forget what you have just promised me.’—Is that so, monsieur?”
“Great heaven! it is very possible, madame. I have no very clear idea what she said to me, for I wanted but one thing, and that was to get rid of her; for I suspected that if you saw me talking with her, it would put a lot of crazy ideas into your head.”
“Crazy ideas! you expect me to see you with a woman like that, and not to object to it! Ah! I am suffocating! I cannot stand any more!”
She put her handkerchief to her eyes. I took her hand and led her away, for I had no desire to make a spectacle of myself again on the Terrasse des Feuillants. We walked along the Champs-Elysées for some time, withoutspeaking. I stopped in front of a restaurant and started to go in.
“What is this place?”
“A restaurant, where we are to dine.”
“It is no use, I am not hungry; I want to go home.”
“You know very well that everything in our apartment is packed up, and that we can’t dine there. Really, Eugénie, you are making yourself miserable for no reason at all. How can you think that if I had relations with that woman, I would be with her where I knew that you were coming?”
“What did you promise her?”
“Mon Dieu! I have no idea; she had been boring me and annoying me for ten minutes; I would have promised her all the treasures of the Indies to get rid of her.”
“But why did she hold your hand?”
“Because it is the habit of all those women; they can’t say a word to you without taking your arm or your hand.”
“Is she a prostitute then?”
“No, she is a—a kept woman.”
“She has a very insolent manner, at all events.”
At last I induced Eugénie to go in, and we were shown to a private room. I wrote my order, for after all, I myself realized that I had not dined. The waiter left the room, whispering to me in an undertone:
“Monsieur will ring when he wants the dinner served.”
He evidently misunderstood the state of affairs. Husbands and wives are not in the habit of dining in private rooms.
Madame took a seat in the corner, a long way from the table. She rested her head on one of her hands. She had ceased to weep, but she did not look at me. How amusing it would be, if she acted like that all the timethat we were dining, or that I was dining! So this was the little spree to which I had looked forward so eagerly! Man proposes and woman disposes.
I wished Lucile at the devil with all my heart. It was her malice, her obstinacy, that had caused all the trouble. The idea of her refusing to leave me! It was simply because it annoyed me.
It seemed to me that if we were to maintain that attitude, I should do well to ring for dinner at once.
Our room looked on the Champs-Elysées. The weather was beautiful; although it was only the middle of April, it was as warm as midsummer. I opened the window and looked out at the passers-by for some time. Eugénie did not budge; I walked to her side.
“Eugénie, do you propose to stay a mile away from the table like this?”
“I told you that I was not hungry. Eat your dinner, monsieur, I don’t object.”
“What a delightful pleasure party!”
“Yes, I shall remember it.”
“And so shall I, madame. You must have a very bad temper to refuse to listen to reason! The idea of thinking that I was looking for that woman when I was waiting for you!”
“I don’t say that you were looking for her, monsieur, I am not foolish enough for that; but I do think that she was looking for you, a task which you often save her, no doubt. Besides, you have admitted that she used to be your mistress.”
“That I knew her before I was married, that is true, madame. Perhaps I was foolish to admit that; but as I had done no wrong, I did not think that I ought to lie.”
“When a man has known a woman, and continues to see her, he must be on as good terms with her as ever.”
“You are very much mistaken! If it were so, men would have altogether too much on their hands.”
“Everybody has not known all Paris as you have!”
“Madame, I have been no better nor worse than other men; but I see that I should have been less honest with you.”
“You ought to have been more honest with me before marrying me.”
“How nice it would have been to tell a virtuous young lady about all my adventures as a bachelor! Really, you are too absurd.”
I seized the bell cord and jerked it violently, for I felt that my irritation was getting the upper hand of me.
The waiter came; he opened the door a crack and put the end of his nose inside, saying:
“What does monsieur wish?”
“Our dinner.”
“Instantly, monsieur.”
And he went away after casting a furtive glance at Eugénie.
“Madame, you need not eat, if you prefer not; but you should sit at the table at least, in order not to attract the waiter’s attention.”
Eugénie made no reply, but she took her seat at the table opposite me.
The soup was brought, and I filled madame’s plate.
“Why, monsieur, I told you that I should not eat anything.”
“But, madame, I do not bid you to eat anything; I simply put some soup in your plate so that you may seem to have dined.”
Madame made no reply, but she did not touch her soup. I ate mine, humming between my teeth. That is my way when I am angry.
The waiter appeared again; he always took the precaution to turn the knob three or four times before coming in. The fellow was an idiot; he must have seen that we were not thinking of making love.
He brought us a beefsteak. At home, Eugénie always served; I did not like to serve, or to carve. But madame would not so much as look at me. I cut a piece for myself with an angry gesture, then pushed the platter before Eugénie. But she would not touch it; she knew that it annoyed me to see that she did not eat, and so she was very careful not to take a mouthful.
I found that vexation and impatience were taking away my appetite too; but no matter! I ate a double quantity. To add to my annoyance, a little violinist had stopped under our window; he had played the same tune ever since we had been there, although I had shouted to him that I would give him nothing. I was not in a mood to be generous.
Well, upon my word! Once more the knob was turned and returned. What a blockhead that waiter was! I should have been delighted to kick him. He entered, still with an air of mystery, and placed some sweetbreads on the table.
Really these family quarrels are most tiresome, for there is no way to avoid them, one must submit to them from beginning to end. If you are bored at other people’s houses, you can go away and never go there again; but at home it is different: you always have to go back. I know that there are husbands who go out in the morning and do not return until bedtime; but is it not a hundred times better to be a bachelor than to be obliged to shun one’s house in order to lead a quiet life? Then at all events, one has some little enjoyment; one laughs now and then at home.
I had evidently been indulging in these reflections, and many others which were not at all rose-colored, for a long time. The violin played on, but I had ceased to attend to it; I had also forgotten the sweetbreads which were before us; indeed I did not realize that I was at a restaurant. I was recalled to myself by the noise of the knob being turned. The waiter entered with a roast chicken. He placed his chicken on the table, and looked at the previous dish, which had not been touched. He was uncertain whether he should carry it away, and he looked from one to the other of us. I am sure that he seldom saw such a taciturn couple. As no one said anything to him, he decided to speak.
“Monsieur and madame have not touched the sweetbreads yet. I brought the chicken too soon; I will take it away again.”
“No, no, leave it and take away your sweetbreads; we don’t want them.”
“Oh! I assure you, monsieur, that they are nicely cooked, and so fresh——”
“I tell you to take them away.”
I do not know whether the tone in which I said this was terrifying, but the waiter took the sweetbreads and disappeared like a flash, closing all the doors behind him. The chicken was before us. I wondered if madame would not be obliging enough to carve it. I placed it in front of her and begged her to be good enough to do so. She pushed it back to the middle of the table and said:
“I will not carve.”
I took up the platter again and handed it to her, saying:
“Madame, you know very well that I am not in the habit of carving.”
“You may do as you choose, monsieur.”
“Do you refuse to carve it, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Will you do it—once, twice?”
“No, monsieur.”
“In that case, as it is foolish to make the landlord a present of it——”
I took up the dish and threw the chicken out of the window. My wife involuntarily gave a little shriek. I walked to the window, for I noticed that the violin had stopped. I saw that the little Savoyard had just picked up the chicken, and fearing doubtless that someone would come out to get it, he hastily threw his violin over his shoulder, concealed the bird under his jacket, and ran across the Champs-Elysées as if the devil were at his heels.
At that sight I was unable to keep a sober face; I burst into a roar of laughter, which increased in volume when I saw that the little violinist ran faster than ever on seeing me at the window. Madame was unable to resist the desire to see what had become of the chicken. She saw the little fellow’s performance, and bit her lips to avoid laughing; but when I turned toward her, she could hold out no longer; she followed my example.
Nothing restores concord so quickly as laughter; disputes rarely take place between laughter-loving people. We had drawn near to each other, having both left the table to go to the window. I do not know how it happened, but I soon found Eugénie in my arms; then we kissed, we walked away from the window, and——
Once more the door was opened, this time without rattling the knob. That waiter was fated to do everything awkwardly; he never guessed right! Eugénie, red as a cherry, hastily moved away from me, but not so quickly that the waiter, who had seen us close together, did not instantly disappear with the macaroni, muttering:
“Beg pardon! you are not ready. Besides, I don’t think the cheese is cooked enough.”
He closed the door. I ran after Eugénie, who murmured:
“Mon Dieu! what will that waiter think?”
I confess that that question worried me very little, and in a few minutes I think that Eugénie forgot it too.
I had to ring to get the macaroni. The waiter came at last; but he hummed and talked to himself upon the landing before touching the knob; then he fumbled over it for five minutes. All the time that he was in the room, my wife kept her eyes down and dared not move or speak. She was not used to such occasions.
I ordered the dessert and the champagne. We ended our dinner much more gaily than the beginning of it would have led one to think. I swore to Eugénie twenty times over that I had ceased to see Lucile long before I had married her. She recovered her amiability; she took nothing but biscuit and champagne, but she declared that it was very pleasant to dine in a private room, and I promised her that we would do it again.
The day following that festivity was our moving day. Eugénie and her maid went early to install themselves in our new apartment, where she wished to have the furniture arranged at the outset according to her own taste. I remained at our old apartment to look after the packing and loading; indeed, I was not sorry to remain as long as possible in my former bachelor’s quarters.
The people who were hired to move us had promised that everything should be done at four o’clock; at seven I was still there. Finally, the last load drove away, and I was at liberty to do likewise. I walked once more through those bare rooms, which to me were so rich in memories. It was there that I had entertained somany pretty faces. It was there too that I had brought Eugénie as a bride, and that she had made me a father. What a pity to leave a home where we had been so happy! Should I be as happy elsewhere? But it was time to have done with such childish thoughts. One is certain to be happy anywhere with the object of one’s affections; my wife was probably impatient at my non-arrival, so I started.
I reached our new home on Boulevard Montmartre, and the maid admitted me. The last furniture had been brought, but nothing was in place; whereas I expected to find the apartment all arranged and all in order.
What on earth had they been doing ever since morning! I asked the maid, who seemed distressed.
“Dear me, monsieur,” she replied, “I did not know where to put all these things.”
“What! hasn’t my wife been here with you all day?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame has been here. At first she worked hard arranging things; but after a little, as she was moving a piece of furniture——”
“She hurt herself?”
“Oh! no, monsieur; madame did not hurt herself; but she found something, I don’t know what, that made her unhappy; she cried, and then she went to her room, and she hasn’t touched anything since.”
The deuce! so there was something new! I wondered if I ever again should enjoy two days of peace! But only the day before we had been reconciled; and that very morning she had shown no signs of discontent. What on earth could have caused this new outbreak? Asking myself these questions, I went to Eugénie’s bedroom. I found her sitting in a chair, but her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be reflecting profoundly. On my arrival, she did not stir.
“What are you doing here, my dear love? It is impossible to find one’s way about here, and the maid says that you will not give any orders; what does it mean?”
“It means, monsieur, that you may arrange everything to suit yourself; for my part I will not lift a finger.”
“Monsieur! Well, well, so something else has gone wrong. Upon my word, this happens too often. Tell me, what is the matter to-day?”
“Oh! I ought not to be surprised; I ought to be prepared for everything with you. But there are things which I shall never be able to take coolly; and when a woman finds that she is deceived so shamefully——”
“Deceived! come, come! explain yourself, madame, I beg you. What fable has somebody been telling you to-day?”
“No one has been telling me any fables, monsieur. This time I have proofs, undeniable proofs. Do not think that I was looking for them; they fell into my hands by the merest chance. When I was trying to put your desk in place, something broke, the drawer opened and I saw—here, monsieur, this is what I found.”
Eugénie opened a drawer and threw upon a table in front of me the eight portraits of women, which I had kept in my desk.
I confess that at sight of them I was speechless for a few moments; but I recovered myself at last.
“Why should the discovery of these portraits offend you? You know very well that I amuse myself by painting a little. When I was a bachelor, I made these miniatures. They are fancy faces, and I saw no harm in keeping them.”
“Ah! they are fancy portraits, are they?” cried Eugénie; and she trembled with anger, and her eyes gleamed. “Monster that you are! I expected that reply.You forget that I saw one of the models yesterday! Look, monsieur, is this a fancy portrait? Oh! the likeness is too good for anyone to mistake it; it is a portrait of that woman who was with you yesterday.”
She held out the portrait of Lucile. I had forgotten that it was among those which I had kept; and as it happened, it was one of the best likenesses. I did not know what to say; I was so vexed to appear like a culprit when I had done no wrong, above all, I was so irritated by my wife’s reproaches that I threw myself on a chair and said nothing more.
Eugénie pursued me, with Lucile’s portrait in her hand.
“You are confounded, monsieur! you cannot think of any more lies to tell; it’s a pity, you tell them so well! So this is the woman with whom you have had nothing to do for a long time, whom you don’t see now, and whom you never loved! But you have her portrait, you treasure it carefully, with those of seven other women whom you probably meetby accident, as you met that creature yesterday! Eight mistresses at once! I congratulate you, monsieur; you make a most virtuous and orderly husband! And this is the man who swore when he married me that he would never love any woman but me! that I alone would suffice to make him happy! Very well, monsieur, have eight mistresses, have thirty, if you choose, but I will not continue to live with a man who acts so. I no longer love you; I feel that I hate you, that I cannot endure the sight of you. I am going home to my mother. Then, monsieur, you will be free to receive your neighbors and all the women whose portraits you paint.”
“Faith, madame, you will do as you choose. For my part, I confess that I am beginning to be tired of your jealous disposition and of your outbreaks, your scenes.This is not the life that I looked forward to when I married. It has ceased to be that pleasant, happy life which was ours at first; and yet, I love you as dearly as ever; I have not ceased for one instant to love you. It is not my fault if you manufacture chimeras, if you detect intrigues in the most innocent things. I have nothing to reproach myself for. If I were guilty, it is probable that I should have taken precautions, and should have found a way to conceal my guilt; but I did nothing wrong in keeping portraits which were painted before I knew you, and which recalled my bachelor studies. It is true that one of them is a portrait of the woman that I met yesterday. In fact, that was what she asked me for, and what I had just promised to send her, when you appeared.”
“Not to send her, but to carry to her yourself. I remember perfectly now. Oh! you can’t make me believe, monsieur, that that portrait was painted long ago. It is that woman just as I saw her yesterday, while she was shaking hands with you so lovingly. And the idea of your daring to claim to be innocent, when I discover every day fresh proofs of your faithlessness! But you shall not carry her her portrait,—neither hers, nor any other. Look! this is what I do with them! Ah! I wish that I could break the bonds that bind me to you in the same way!”
Eugénie threw the miniatures on the floor; she jumped upon them and ground them to pieces under her feet; I had never seen her in such a frenzy of rage. I said nothing; I kept my seat, and my placidity seemed to intensify her wrath. At last, when she had reduced the ivories to powder, she raised the sleeve of her dress, snatched the bracelet from her arm, in which my portrait was set, and then threw it upon the floor and trampled upon it, crying:
“I will not keep the portrait of a man whom I can no longer love!”
The sight of the destruction of the women’s portraits had caused me no emotion; but when I saw Eugénie trample my image under her feet, my image which she had sworn to keep as long as she lived, I felt a sharp pang. A keen, poignant grief suddenly took possession of me. It seemed to me that my happiness had been destroyed like that portrait. I involuntarily started to stop Eugénie; but a feeling of just pride held me back, and I allowed her to consummate the sacrifice.
After shattering my portrait, Eugénie dropped into a chair as if exhausted by the transport of passion to which she had yielded. I fancied even that I could detect in her eyes some feeling of shame for what she had done. Thereupon I rose and gazed sadly at the shattered fragments of my portrait; then, glancing at my wife, I left the room without saying a word to her. I left the house. I have no idea where I went. I had not dined, but it was my turn not to be hungry. I could still see Eugénie trampling upon my portrait, and it seemed to me that she could no longer love me, that her love and her fidelity were attached to that image for which she no longer cared.
I realized that I must be a man rather than a lover, for love does not last forever, but manliness sustains us throughout our whole life. While reasoning thus with myself, I sighed profoundly, for I still adored Eugénie; after all, jealousy is a proof of love, they say: my wife would come to herself and I would forgive her. But the breaking of my portrait, my work, which should have reminded her of the delicious sittings, when she was beside me—Ah! that was very wicked! and I should have difficulty in forgiving her for that.
I walked a long while; at last I found myself in my old street; I believe that our legs have an instinct of their own, and that they lead us toward the places which they have often traversed.
Suppose I should go to see Ernest and his wife, I thought, to divert my mind from my troubles? They were my only friends, and would gladly share my sorrows. However, I would not tell them of my woes, but I would forget them in their company. So I betook myself to Rue du Temple.
The concierge told me that they were at home. I went up. Madame Ernest admitted me and ushered me into her room, saying:
“By what miracle have you come in the evening, monsieur? It is seldom enough that we see you even in the morning. Ernest is at the theatre, but he promised to return early.”
The little woman gave me a seat and then resumed her work. We talked, or rather she talked; she talked of Ernest, of his work, of his success, of their mode of life. I enjoyed listening to her. While she was speaking, I looked at her, and it seemed like one of the evenings which I used to pass in her attic room. Marguerite was still the same, and in my thoughts I loved to call her by that name still.
Suddenly she stopped and said to me:
“I am doing all the talking. I must be wearying you, am I not?”
“Oh, no!”
“But you don’t say anything.”
“I am listening to you.”
“Never mind, you are not usually silent like this. Are you unhappy?”
“Perhaps so.”
“A little falling out with your wife? I will wager that I have guessed it!”
“That is true; we have had a little dispute.”
“And that makes you unhappy. Ah! you are like me; when I have a dispute with Ernest, it makes me very sad! Luckily it seldom happens, and it doesn’t last long. I should die if it did!”
And the little woman told me about some petty discussions between Ernest and herself, the merest child’s play, which could not interrupt the current of their love for an instant. I had been listening to my little neighbor for an hour, without being bored for an instant; however, I was anxious to know what was going on at home, so I rose.
“I won’t try to detain you,” said Madame Ernest; “your wife is waiting for you, no doubt, and you mustn’t let her get impatient. Ernest will be sorry to have missed you.”
I took leave of my former neighbor and left the house. As I stepped into the street, a woman who was leaning against a post near the porte cochère, seized my arm convulsively, and said:
“You have been alone with her for an hour and a half; her Ernest wasn’t there. I know, for the concierge told me so.”
It was Eugénie. Eugénie, who had followed me, no doubt, and had seen me go into that house, and had remained at the door all the time that I had been with Marguerite.
I was so surprised, so thunderstruck, that I could not answer. After saying these few words, my wife left me and ran swiftly before me. I called her, I tried to overtake her, and succeeded at last. But she would not answer me, she persisted in refusing to take my arm.
And thus we returned home. I tried to have an explanation with my wife, but she locked herself into her bedroom and refused to admit me. A bed was made for me in my study.
So I was obliged to pass the night alone, and separate like that after the scenes of the evening! Ah! that was a very gloomy housewarming in our new apartment.
After passing several weeks without speaking to each other, my wife and I came together again and became reconciled; but it seemed to me that the reconciliation was not very sincere, that it was simply a sort of smoothing over. Had these frequent scenes diminished our love? No, I still loved my wife; but when often repeated, disputes sour the temper and change the disposition. The words that people say to each other in passion, although forgotten afterward, deal a fatal blow to our illusions, and they never grow again.
We went again to Livry, to our daughter’s nurse, on a superb day in June. How little that excursion resembled the other! we had no dispute, but the tranquillity which reigned between us was like that which ordinarily follows twenty years of married life; and we returned home without driving our horse to the edge of a ditch.
A very sad event marked the first months of our life in our new home: Eugénie lost her mother. Dear Madame Dumeillan was taken from us after a short illness, whenwe had every reason to hope that we might long enjoy her presence and her affection. I felt the loss almost as keenly as my wife, for Madame Dumeillan was our best friend. Careful not to take part in our disputes, pretending not to notice them, Madame Dumeillan, without blaming either of us, had the art of bringing us together again, and of reviving the most affectionate sentiments in our hearts. Whenever Eugénie had been to see her mother, I knew it at once, because she was more amiable with me. Ah! how seldom do we see parents who long for our happiness without trying to govern our conduct, our actions; and without fatiguing us with their advice! The loss we had sustained was irreparable; one does not meet twice in one’s life people who love us for ourselves alone and who do not impose a thousand obligations on us as the price of their affection.
Eugénie’s sorrow was very deep and very keen. To divert her, I took her into society. We went to evening parties, to the theatre, to concerts; we received company at our house more frequently. The commotion of society does not altogether enable one to forget one’s loss, but it gives one employment and distraction. There are sorrows with which one loves to withdraw into oneself; there are others which compel us to shun ourselves, and in which reflection is deadly.
We brought our daughter home. Her presence helped to divert my wife’s thoughts from her grief. The sight of her Henriette, her caresses, her first words, unintelligible to anybody but ourselves, enabled Eugénie at last to endure the loss she had sustained. A woman is a daughter before she is a mother, but she is a mother much longer than she has been a daughter; and in our hearts affection does not look backward, it inclines rather toward the later generation.
Madame Dumeillan’s death made my wife richer than I by four thousand francs a year. I did not envy her her wealth, but I regretted that my children should owe more to their mother than to me. That thought led me to work much harder; I passed a large part of my time in my study and at the Palais. We saw each other less frequently; was that the reason that we agreed better? I hoped that that circumstance was not accountable for it. I was always glad to return to Eugénie and I was very happy when I held my daughter in my arms. My little Henriette was so pretty! she seemed already very bright and intelligent to me, and I was disposed to spoil her, to do whatever she wished; but my wife was more strict than I.
We saw my mother, but only very seldom; she considered that we played whist badly at our house. The Girauds came sometimes to see us; they were still busily engaged in negotiating marriages. I gave myself the pleasure of having them, with Bélan and his wife, at my house. There was a rattling discharge of epigrams on the part of Giraud. The superb Armide did not seem to notice them, and as for Bélan, he entrenched himself behind his wife, whose servant he seemed to be, and to whom he never spoke without bowing.
In the large parties, the boisterous entertainments which we frequently attended, there were some pretty married women, and some exceedingly pretty unmarried ones. I will frankly confess that I sometimes surprised myself, oblivious of the fact that I was married, making eyes at the ladies and paying court to the young women; the latter did not respond to my glances; the fact that I was a married man prevented them from taking any notice of me; but it was not always the same with the others. Those periods of forgetfulness, however, lastedonly for an instant; then I was greatly surprised to find that I had been behaving like a bachelor. There is no great harm in casting a soft glance at another woman than one’s wife; but if Eugénie had done as much, if she had cast such a glance at a man, I should have considered it very wrong. Surely I did not regret that I was married; why then did I behave sometimes in society as if I were not? But that apparent frivolity was due to my disposition and not to my heart. I do not consider that because a man is married he must necessarily behave like an owl, and never dare to laugh and jest except with his wife; in that case marriage would be too heavy a chain.
I went sometimes to see Ernest; he too, was a father, the father of a little boy. He and Marguerite were happy beyond words. Fortune smiled upon them; Ernest was earning money, and, if he had chosen, there were plenty of people who would gladly have come to his table to congratulate him upon his success and to flatter his wife, closing their eyes to what was lacking in their union. But Marguerite did not choose to go into society; she insisted that a few real friends are much to be preferred to parties where women tear one another to pieces and men deceive one another. She spoke of the world as if she were familiar with it.
“This society in which you wish me to mingle,” she said to Ernest, “would think that it did me much honor by receiving me; indeed many women would blush to speak to me. ‘She is not married,’ they would say to one another as they eyed me contemptuously. And I, my dear, do not feel disposed to put up with such a greeting. In the bottom of my heart I feel quite as worthy of esteem as any of those ladies; for I would give my blood and my life for you; and there is more than one of them who would not do as much for her husband.”
I considered that my old neighbor was right. Ernest himself had no answer to make; and yet he would have been glad to have her go sometimes into the world, in order to acquire the habits of society and to avoid awkwardness if she should ever receive company. He wished to make his little Marguerite a lady. It seemed to me that she was very well as she was.
For some time my wife had been less jealous; perhaps she felt that she had always been wrong to be jealous; perhaps she had striven to correct herself. But suppose that that were not the reason? Suppose that she cared less for me? Mon Dieu! how ingenious we are in inventing tortures for ourselves! I was unhappy because of my wife’s jealousy; and lo and behold, I had begun to worry because she left me in peace!
Sometimes, however, I saw that her eyes followed me as of old when I was speaking to a pretty woman; but if, after playing the gallant, I approached Eugénie, as if to set her heart at rest, she would look away with an indifferent air, and pretend that she had not been noticing me. Was that her new way of loving me, and was there no mean between that frigid manner and the transports of jealousy?
Among the people who came to my house, there were many men of letters and artists. Their company was agreeable; they were at least witty in their malice, and unceremonious in their manners. A very pleasant painter, whom we had met at many functions, insisted, although a bachelor, upon giving a ball for the ladies at whose houses he often danced. Monsieur Leberger issued his invitations, and everybody accepted. We looked forward to having much sport and merriment at a party given by a bachelor painter. For my part, I was careful to obtain invitations for the Bélans and the Girauds; I love tobring enemies face to face. Leberger invited everybody who was suggested to him, his most earnest wish being to have a large number of guests; indeed, the ballroom was to be his studio, and there would be plenty of room.
My wife made some objections to going to the ball; she thought that it would not be enjoyable, she declared that she no longer cared about dancing. No longer cared about dancing, and she was but twenty years old! I insisted that she should go, and she yielded at last. But we did not start until our little Henriette was asleep; I wished that she were old enough to go and dance with us.
Two torches at Leberger’s door pointed out his abode when we were still far away. Our artist was determined that nothing should be lacking at his ball; the staircase was lighted by candelabra at frequent intervals; there were no flowers on the stairs, but there were rugs. The strains of the orchestra guided us, for the ball was already under way. An obliging neighbor, who lived on the same floor as the artist, had lent him his apartment, which served both as dressing room and laboratory; for the punch was concocted and the refreshments prepared in the neighbor’s apartment.
The studio, transformed into a ballroom, presented a striking appearance. It was spacious, but well-lighted. Finished pictures, sketches and studies adorned the walls. Busts, statues, and torsos served as candelabra; the musicians were perched upon a broad flight of steps, above which ancient Roman costumes were draped. The orchestra was made up of amateurs; but those amateurs had the self-assurance and almost the talent of Tolbecque. Behind them stood a manikin, which held a serpent to its mouth, as if it were playing on it; and a small flute was placed in the mouth of an Ajax, and a trombone in the hand of Belisarius.
There was a great crowd; Leberger had invited a great many of his fellow-painters, and poets, musicians, and sculptors. The ball was already well in train. I saw Giraud dancing with his daughter, while his wife had accepted the invitation of her oldest son, who was beginning to administer some very graceful kicks to his neighbors. I saw Madame Bélan, who had deigned to accept the hand of a poet, while her husband remained with his mother-in-law, Madame de Beausire, who was seated in a corner of the studio, where she seemed to be posing as theMother of the Maccabees.
My wife joined some ladies of her acquaintance, and I went to watch a quadrille. My eyes fell upon a young lady who was dancing very timidly but who was by no means without grace. I knew that face, yes, I certainly knew it; but where had I seen it? Was it possible? Yes, it was Marguerite, it was Madame Ernest. That dress, so different from the simple one in which I had always seen her, had prevented me from recognizing her. I was far from expecting to see her at that ball. By what chance had she come? Probably her husband had insisted. But then he must be there—yes, there he was, watching his wife dance and gazing at her with evident pleasure. He was right; she was one of the loveliest women in the room.
I could see nothing surprising in the fact that Ernest had brought his wife there; I could see no harm in his taking her everywhere with him; but there were, in that assemblage, absurd people who did not agree with me. Luckily a person’s station is not written on his forehead.
But my wife! Since that evening when she had followed me, she was convinced that I either was or had been on intimate terms with Madame Firmin. I certainly should not tell her that my former neighbor wasthere, but if she should see Ernest, she would undoubtedly find it out.
I was as disturbed as if I were guilty; if I had been, perhaps I should not have been so embarrassed. However, I could not avoid saying good-evening to Madame Firmin; I certainly would not be impolite because my wife was unjust; but I would try to do it without letting her see me.