Then Anna, with her eyes swimming in tears, told the servants, in the faltering voice of a woman trying to stifle her sobs, to bring the champagne.
All the guests were suddenly seized with exuberant joy, and their faces became radiant again. Old Touchard, who had seen, felt, and understood nothing of what was going on, was still brandishing his loaf, and singing to himself, as he showed it to the guests:
Chers enfants, gardez-vous de toucher ce pain-là.
The whole party, electrified by the sight of the bottles with their silver foil, loudly took up the refrain:
Chers enfants, gardez-vous de toucher ce pain-là.
The fat Justice of the Peace, with one eye closed and the other half-open, is listening with evident displeasure to the plaintiffs. Once in a while he gives a sort of grunt that foretells his opinion, and in a thin voice resembling that of a child, he interrupts them to ask questions. He has just rendered judgment in the case of Monsieur Joly against Monsieur Petitpas, the contestants having come to court on account of the boundary line of a field which had been accidentally displaced by Monsieur Petitpas's farmhand, while the latter was plowing.
Now he calls the case of Hippolyte Lacour, vestryman and ironmonger, against Madame Céleste Cesarine Luneau, widow of Anthime Isidore Luneau.
Hippolyte Lacour is forty-five years old; he is tall and gaunt, with a clean-shaven face like a priest, long hair, and he speaks in a slow, singsong voice.
Madame Luneau appears to be about forty years of age. She is built like a prize-fighter, and her narrow and clinging dress is stretched tightly over her portly form. Her enormous hips hold up her overflowing bosom in front, while in the back they support the great rolls of flesh that cover her shoulders. Her face, with strongly-cut features, rests on a short, fat neck, and her strong voice is pitched at a key that makes the windows and the eardrums of her auditors vibrate. She is about to become a mother and her huge form protrudes like a mountain.
The witnesses for the defense are waiting to be called.
The judge begins: Hippolyte Lacour, state your complaint.
The plaintiff speaks: Your Honour, it will be nine months on Saint-Michael's day since the defendant came to me one evening, after I had rung the Angelus, and began an explanation relating to her barrenness.
The Justice of the Peace: Kindly be more explicit.
Hippolyte: Very well, your Honour. Well, she wanted to have a child and desired my participation. I didn't raise any objection, and she promised to give me one hundred francs. The thing was all cut and dried, and now she refuses to acknowledge my claim, which I renew before your Honour.
The Justice: I don't understand in the least. You say that she wanted a child! What kind of child? Did she wish to adopt one?
Hippolyte: No, your Honour, she wanted a new one.
The Justice: What do you mean by a new one?
Hippolyte: I mean a newborn child, one that we were to beget as if we were man and wife.
The Justice: You astonish me. To what end did she make this abnormal proposition?
Hippolyte: Your Honour, at first I could not make out her reasons, and was taken a little aback. But as I don't do anything without thoroughly investigating beforehand, I called on her to explain matters to me, which she did. You see, her husband, Anthime Isidore, whom you knew as well as you know me, had died the week before, and his money reverted to his family. This greatly displeased her on account of the loss it meant, so she went to a lawyer who told her all about what might happen if a child should be born to her after ten months. I mean by this that if she gave birth to a child inside of the ten months following the death of Anthime Isidore, her offspring would be considered legitimate and would entitle her to the inheritance. She made up her mind at once to run the risk, and came to me after church, as I have already had the honour of telling you, seeing that I am the father of eight living children, the oldest of whom is a grocer in Caen, department of Calvados, and legitimately married to Victoire-Elisabeth Rabou—
The Justice: These details are superfluous. Go back to the subject.
Hippolyte: I am getting there, your Honour. So she said to me: "If you succeed, I'll give you one hundred francs as soon as I get the doctor's report." Well, your Honour, I made ready to give entire satisfaction, and after eight weeks or so I learned with pleasure that I had succeeded. But when I asked her for the hundred francs she refused to pay me. I renewed my demands several times, never getting so much as a pin. She even called me a liar and a weakling, a libel which can be destroyed by glancing at her.
The Justice: Defendant, what have you to say?
Madame Luneau: Your Honour, I say that this man is a liar.
The Justice: How can you prove this assertion?
Madame Luneau (red in the face, choking and stammering): How can I prove it? What proofs have I? I haven't a single real proof that the child isn't his. But, your Honour, it isn't his, I swear it on the head of my dead husband.
The Justice: Well, whose is it, then?
Madame Luneau (stammering with rage): How do I know? How do—do I know? Everybody's I suppose. Here are my witnesses, your Honour, they're all here, the six of them. Now make them testify, make them testify. They'll tell—
The Justice: Collect yourself, Madame Luneau, collect yourself and reply calmly to my questions. What reasons have you to doubt that this man is the father of the child you are carrying?
Madame Luneau: What reasons? I have a hundred to one, a hundred? No, two hundred, five hundred, ten thousand, a million and more reasons to believe he isn't. After the proposal I made to him, with the promise of one hundred francs, didn't I learn that he wasn't the father of his own children, your Honour, not the father of one of 'em?
Hippolyte (calmly): That's a lie.
Madame Luneau (exasperated): A lie! A lie, is it? I think his wife has been around with everybody around here. Call my witnesses, your Honour, and make them testify?
Hippolyte (calmly): It's a lie.
Madame Luneau: It's a lie, is it? How about the red-haired ones, then? I suppose they're yours, too?
The Justice: Kindly refrain from personal attacks, or I shall be obliged to call you to order.
Madame Luneau: Well, your Honour, I had my doubts about him, and said I to myself, two precautions are better than one, so I explained my position to Césaire Lepic, the witness who is present. Says he to me, "At your disposal, Madame Luneau," and he lent me his assistance in case Hippolyte should turn out to be unreliable. But as soon as the other witnesses heard that I wanted to make sure against any disappointment, I could have had more than a hundred, your Honour, if I had wanted them. That tall one over there, Lucas Chandelier, swore at the time that I oughn't to give Hippolyte Lacour a cent, for he hadn't done more than the rest of them who had obliged me for nothing.
Hippolyte: What did you promise for? I expected the money, your Honour. No mistake with me,—a promise given, a promise kept.
Madame Luneau (beside herself): One hundred francs! One hundred francs! One hundred francs for that, you liar! The others there didn't ask a red cent! Look at 'em, all six of 'em! Make them testify, your Honour, they'll tell you. (To Hippolyte.) Look at 'em, you liar! they're as good as you. They're only six, but I could have had one, two, three, five hundred of 'em for nothing, too, you robber!
Hippolyte: Well, even if you'd had a hundred thousand—
Madame Luneau: I could, if I'd wanted them.
Hippolyte: I did my duty, so it doesn't change our agreement.
Madame Luneau (slapping her protuberant form with both hands): Then prove that it's you that did it, prove it, you robber! I defy you to prove it!
Hippolyte (calmly): Maybe I didn't do any more than anybody else. But you promised me a hundred francs for it. What did you ask the others for, afterwards? You had no right to. I could have done it alone.
Madame Luneau: It is not true, robber! Call my witnesses, your Honour; they'll answer, for certain.
The Justice calls the witnesses in behalf of the defense. Six individuals appeared blushing, awkward looking, with their arms swinging at their sides.
The Justice: Lucas Chandelier, have you any reason to suppose that you are the father of the child Madame Luneau is carrying.
Lucas Chandelier: Yes, sir.
The Justice: Célestin-Pierre Sidoine, have you any reason to suppose that you are the father of the child Madame Luneau is carrying?
Celestin-Pierre Sidoine: Yes, sir.
The four other witnesses testified to the same effect.
The Justice, after having thought for a while pronounced judgment: Whereas the plaintiff has reasons to believe himself the father of the child which Madame Luneau desired, Lucas Chandelier, Celestin-Pierre Sidoine, and others, have similar, if not conclusive reasons to lay claim to the child.
But whereas Mme Luneau had previously asked the assistance of Hippolyte Lacour for a duly stated consideration of one hundred francs:
And whereas one may not question the absolute good faith of Hippolyte Lacour, though it is questionable whether he had a perfect right to enter into such an agreement, seeing that the plaintiff is married, and compelled by the law to remain faithful to his lawful spouse: Whereas, farther, etc., etc.
Therefore the Court condemns Madame Luneau to pay an indemnity of twenty-five francs to Hippolyte Lacour for loss of time and seduction.
Blérot had been my friend since childhood; we had no secrets from each other, and were united heart and soul by a brotherly intimacy and a boundless confidence in each other. He used to tell me his most intimate thoughts, even the smallest pangs of conscience that are very often kept hidden from our own selves. I did the same for him. I had been the confident of all his love affairs, as he had been with mine.
When he told me that he was going to get married I was hurt, as though by an act of treason. I felt that it must interfere with that cordial and absolute affection which had united us. His wife would come between us. The intimacy of the marriage-bed establishes a kind of complicity, a mysterious alliance between two persons, even when they have ceased to love each other. Man and wife are like two discreet partners who will not let anyone else into their secrets. But that close bond which the conjugal kiss fastens is broken quickly on the day on which the woman takes a lover.
I remember Blérot's wedding as if it were but yesterday. I would not be present at the signing of the marriage contract, as I have no particular liking for such ceremonies. I only went to the civil wedding and to the church.
His wife, whom I had never seen before, was a tall, slight girl, with pale hair, pale cheeks, pale hands, and eyes to match. She walked with a slightly undulating motion, as if she were on board a ship, and seemed to advance with a succession of long, graceful courtesies.
Blérot seemed very much in love with her. He looked at her constantly, and I felt a shiver of an immoderate desire for her pass through his frame.
I went to see him a few days later, and he said to me:
"You do not know how happy I am; I am madly in love with her; but then she is—she is—" He did not finish his sentence, but he put the tips of his fingers to his lips with a gesture which signified "divine! delicious! perfect!" and a good deal more besides.
I asked, laughing, "What! all that?"
"Everything that you can imagine," was his answer.
He introduced me to her. She was very pleasant, on easy terms with me, as was natural, and begged me to look upon their house as my own. But I felt that he, Blérot, did not belong to me any longer. Our intimacy was cut off definitely, and we hardly found a word to say to each other.
I soon took my leave, and shortly afterwards went to the East, returning by way of Russia, Germany, Sweden, and Holland, after an absence of eighteen months from Paris.
The morning after my arrival, as I was walking along the boulevards to feel the air of Paris once more, I saw a pale man with sunken cheeks coming toward me, who was as much like Blérot as it was possible for an emaciated tubercular man to resemble a strong, ruddy, rather stout man. I looked at him in surprise, and asked myself: "Can it possibly be he?" But he saw me, uttered a cry, and came toward me with outstretched arms. I opened mine and we embraced in the middle of the boulevard.
After we had gone up and down once or twice from the Rue Drouot to the Vaudeville Theatre, just as we were taking leave of each other,—for he already seemed quite done up with walking,—I said to him:
"You don't look at all well. Are you ill?"
"I do feel rather out of sorts," was all he said.
He looked like a man who was going to die, and I felt a flood of affection for my dear old friend, the only real one that I had ever had. I squeezed his hands.
"What is the matter with you? Are you in pain?"
"A little tired; but it is nothing."
"What does your doctor say?"
"He calls it anæmia, and has ordered me to eat no white meat and to take tincture of iron."
A suspicion flashed across me.
"Are you happy?" I asked him.
"Yes, very happy; my wife is charming, and I love her more than ever."
But I noticed that he grew rather red and seemed embarrassed, as if he was afraid of any further questions, so I took him by the arm and pushed him into a café, which was nearly empty at that time of day. I forced him to sit down, and looking him straight in the face, I said:
"Look here, old fellow, just tell me the exact truth."
"I have nothing to tell you," he stammered.
"That is not true," I replied, firmly. "You are ill, mentally perhaps, and you dare not reveal your secret to anyone. Something or other is doing you harm, and I mean you to tell me what it is. Come, I am waiting for you to begin."
Again he got very red, stammered, and turning his head away, he said:
"It is very idiotic—but I—I am done for!"
As he did not go on, I said:
"Just tell me what it is."
"Well, I have got a wife who is killing me, that is all," he said abruptly, almost desperately as if he had uttered a torturing thought, as yet unrealised.
I did not understand at first. "Does she make you unhappy? She makes you suffer, night and day? How? What is it?"
"No," he replied in a low voice, as if he were confessing some crime; "I love her too much, that is all."
I was thunderstruck at this unexpected avowal, and then I felt inclined to laugh, but at length I managed to reply:
"But surely, at least so it seems to me, you might manage to—to love her a little less."
He had got very pale again, but finally he made up his mind to speak to me openly, as he used to do formerly.
"No," he said, "that is impossible; and I am dying from it, I know; it is killing me, and I am really frightened. Some days, like to-day, I feel inclined to leave her, to go away altogether, to start for the other end of the world, so as to live for a long time; and then, when the evening comes, I return home in spite of myself, but slowly, and feeling uncomfortable. I go upstairs hesitatingly and ring, and when I go in I see her there sitting in her arm-chair, and she says, 'How late you are,' I kiss her, and we sit down to dinner. During the meal I think: 'I will go directly it is over, and take the train for somewhere, no matter where'; but when we get back to the drawing-room I am so tired that I have not the courage to get up out of my chair, and so I remain, and then—and then—I succumb again."
I could not help smiling again. He saw it, and said: "You may laugh, but I assure you it is very horrible."
"Why don't you tell your wife?" I asked him. "Unless she be a regular monster she would understand."
He shrugged his shoulders. "It is all very well for you to talk. I don't tell her because I know her nature. Have you ever heard it said of certain women, 'She has just married a third time?' Well, and that makes you laugh as you did just now, and yet it is true. What is to be done? It is neither her fault nor mine. She is so, because nature has made her so; I assure you, my dear old friend, she has the temperament of a Messalina. She does not know it, but I do; so much the worse for me. She is charming, gentle, tender, and thinks that our conjugal intercourse, which is wearing me out and killing me, is natural and quite moderate. She seems like an ignorant schoolgirl, and she really is ignorant, poor child.
"Every day I form energetic resolutions, for you must understand that I am dying. But one look of her eyes, one of those looks in which I can read the ardent desire of her lips, is enough for me, and I succumb at once, saying to myself: 'This is really the end; I will have no more of her death-giving kisses,' and then, when I have yielded again, like I have to-day, I go out and walk and walk, thinking of death, and saying to myself that I am lost, that all is over.
"I am mentally so ill that I went for a walk to Père Lachaise cemetery yesterday. I looked at all the graves, standing in a row like dominoes, and I thought to myself: 'I shall soon be there,' and then I returned home, quite determined to pretend to be ill, and so escape, but I could not.
"Oh! You don't know what it is. Ask a smoker who is poisoning himself with nicotine whether he can give up his delicious and deadly habit. He will tell you that he has tried a hundred times without success, and he will, perhaps, add: 'So much the worse, but I would rather die than go without tobacco.' That is just the case with me. When once one is in the clutches of such a passion or such a habit, one must give oneself up to it entirely."
He got up and held out his hand. I felt seized with a tumult of rage, and with hatred for this woman, this careless, charming, terrible woman; and as he was buttoning up his coat to go away I said to him, brutally perhaps:
"But, in God's name, why don't you let her have lovers rather than kill yourself like that?"
He shrugged his shoulders without replying, and went off.
For six months I did not see him. Every morning I expected a letter of invitation to his funeral, but I would not go to his house from a complicated feeling of anger against him and of contempt for that woman; for a thousand different reasons.
One lovely spring morning I was walking in the Champs-Elysées. It was one of those warm afternoons which make our eyes bright and stir in us a tumultuous feeling of happiness from the mere sense of existence. Some one tapped me on the shoulder, and turning round I saw my old friend, looking well, stout, and rosy.
He gave me both hands, beaming with pleasure, and exclaimed:
"Here you are, you erratic individual!"
I looked at him, utterly thunderstruck.
"Well, on my word—yes. By Jove! I congratulate you; you have indeed changed in the last six months!"
He flushed scarlet, and said, with an embarrassed laugh:
"One can but do one's best."
I looked at him so obstinately that he evidently felt uncomfortable, so I went on:
"So—now—you are—completely cured?"
He stammered, hastily:
"Yes, perfectly, thank you." Then changing his tone, "How lucky that I should have come across you, old fellow. I hope we shall see each other often now."
But I would not give up my idea; I wanted to know how matters really stood, so I asked:
"Don't you remember what you told me six months ago? I suppose—I—eh—suppose you resist now?"
"Please don't talk any more about it," he replied, uneasily; "forget that I mentioned it to you; leave me alone. But, you know, I have no intention of letting you go; you must come and dine at my house."
A sudden fancy took me to see for myself how matters stood, so that I might understand all about it, and I accepted. Two hours later he introduced me to his home.
His wife received me in a most charming manner, and she was, as a matter of fact, a most attractive woman. She looked guileless, distinguished and adorably naïve. Her long hands, her neck, and cheeks were beautifully white and delicate, and marked her breeding, and her walk was undulating and delightful, as if her leg gave slightly at each step.
René gave her a brotherly kiss on the forehead and said:
"Has not Lucien come yet?"
"Not yet," she replied, in a clear, soft voice; "you know he is almost always rather late."
At that moment the bell rang, and a tall man was shown in. He was dark, with a thick beard, and looked like a society Hercules. We were introduced to each other; his name was Lucien Delabarre.
René and he shook hands in a most friendly manner, and then we went to dinner.
It was a most enjoyable meal, without the least constraint. My old friend spoke with me constantly, in the old familiar cordial manner, just as he used to do. It was: "You know, old fellow!"—"I say, old fellow!"—"Just listen a moment, old fellow!" Suddenly he exclaimed:
"You don't know how glad I am to see you again; it takes me back to old times."
I looked at his wife and the other man. Their attitude was perfectly correct, though I fancied once or twice that they exchanged a rapid and furtive look.
As soon as dinner was over René turned to his wife, and said:
"My dear, I have just met Pierre again, and I am going to carry him off for a walk and a chat along the boulevards to remind us of old times. You will excuse this bachelor spree. I am leaving Mr. Delabarre with you."
The young woman smiled, and said to me, as she shook hands with me:
"Don't keep him too long."
As we went along, arm-in-arm, I could not help saying to him, for I was determined to know how matters stood:
"What has happened? Do tell me!"
He, however, interrupted me roughly, and answered like a man who has been disturbed without any reason.
"Just look here, old fellow; leave me alone with your questions."
Then he added, half aloud, as if talking to himself:
"After all, it would have been too stupid to have let oneself go to perdition like that."
I did not press him. We walked on quickly and began to talk. All of a sudden he whispered in my ear:
"I say, suppose we go and see the girls! Eh?"
I could not help laughing heartily.
"Just as you like; come along, old man."
Madame Oreille was a very economical woman; she thoroughly knew the value of a half-penny, and possessed a whole store-house of strict principles with regard to the multiplication of money, so that her servant found the greatest difficulty in making what servants call their "market-penny," while her husband had great difficulty in getting any pocket-money at all. They were, however, very comfortably off, and had no children. It really pained. Mme Oreille to see any money spent; it was like tearing at her heartstrings when she had to take any of those silver pieces out of her pocket; and whenever she had to spend anything, no matter how necessary it was, she slept badly the next night.
Oreille was continually saying to his wife:
"You really might be more liberal, as we have no children and never spend our income."
"You don't know what may happen," she used to reply. "It is better to have too much than too little."
She was a little woman of about forty, very active, rather hasty, wrinkled, very neat and tidy, and with a very short temper. Her husband very often used to complain of all the privations she made him endure; some of them were particularly painful to him, as they touched his vanity.
He was one of the upper clerks in the War Office, and only stayed there in obedience to his wife's wish, so as to increase their income, which they did not nearly spend.
For two years he had always come to the office with the same old patched umbrella, to the great amusement of his fellow-clerks. At last he got tired of their jokes, and insisted upon his wife buying him a new one. She bought one for eight francs and a-half, one of those cheap things which big stores sell as an advertisement. When the others in the office saw the article, which was being sold in Paris by the thousand, they began their jokes again, and Oreille had a dreadful time of it with them. The umbrella was no good. In three months it was done for and at the office everybody laughed. They even made a song about it, which he heard from morning till night all over the immense building.
Oreille was very angry, and peremptorily told his wife to get him a new one, a good silk one, for twenty francs, and to bring him the bill, so that he might see that it was all right.
She bought him one for eighteen francs, and said, getting red with anger as she gave it to her husband:
"This will last you for five years at least."
Oreille felt quite triumphant, and obtained a small ovation at the office with his new acquisition. When he went home in the evening, his wife said to him, looking at the umbrella uneasily:
"You should not leave it fastened up with the elastic; it will very likely cut the silk. You must take care of it, for I shall not buy you a new one in a hurry."
She took it, unfastened it, and then remained dumfounded, with astonishment and rage. In the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a six-penny-piece, as if made with the end of a cigar.
"What is that?" she screamed.
Her husband replied quietly, without looking at it:
"What is it? What do you mean?"
She was choking with rage and could hardly get out a word.
"You—you—have burned—your umbrella! Why—you must be—mad! Do you wish to ruin us outright?"
He turned round hastily, turning pale.
"What are you talking about?"
"I say that you have burned your umbrella. Just look here—"
And rushing at him, as if she were going to beat him, she violently thrust the little circular burned hole under his nose.
He was so utterly struck dumb at the sight of it that he could only stammer out:
"What—what is it? How should I know? I have done nothing, I will swear. I don't know what is the matter with the umbrella."
"You have been playing tricks with it at the office; you have been playing the fool and opening it, to show it off!" she screamed.
"I only opened it once, to let them see what a nice one it was, that is all, I declare."
But she shook with rage, and got up one of those conjugal scenes which make a peaceable man dread the domestic hearth more than a battlefield where bullets are raining.
She mended it with a piece of silk cut out of the old umbrella, which was of a different color, and the next day Oreille went off very humbly with the mended article in his hand. He put it into a cupboard, and thought no more of it than of some unpleasant recollection.
But he had scarcely got home that evening when his wife took the umbrella from him, opened it, and nearly had a fit when she saw what had befallen it, for the disaster was now irreparable. It was covered with small holes, which evidently, proceeded from burns, just as if some one had emptied the ashes from a lighted pipe on to it. It was done for, utterly, irreparably.
She looked at it without a word, in too great a passion to be able to say anything. He also, when he saw the damage, remained almost dumb, in a state of frightened consternation.
They looked at each other; then he looked on to the floor. The next moment she threw the useless article at his head, screaming out in a transport of the most violent rage, for she had now recovered her voice:
"Oh! you brute! you brute! You did it on purpose, but I will pay you out for it. You shall not have another."
And then the scene began again. After the storm had raged for an hour, he, at last, was able to explain himself. He declared that he could not understand it at all, and that it could only proceed from malice or from vengeance.
A ring at the bell saved him; it was a friend whom they were expecting to dinner.
Mme Oreille submitted the case to him. As for buying a new umbrella, that was out of the question; her husband should not have another. The friend very sensibly said that in that case his clothes would be spoiled, and they were certainly worth more than the umbrella. But the little woman, who was still in a rage, replied:
"Very well, then, when it rains he may have the kitchen umbrella, for I will not give him a new silk one."
Oreille utterly rebelled at such an idea.
"All right," he said; "then I shall resign my post. I am not going to the office with the kitchen umbrella."
The friend interposed:
"Have this one re-covered; it will not cost much."
But Mme Oreille, being in the temper that she was, said:
"It will cost at least eight francs to re-cover it. Eight and eighteen are twenty-six. Just fancy, twenty-six francs for an umbrella! It is utter madness!"
The friend, who was only a poor man of the middle classes, had an inspiration:
"Make your fire insurance pay for it. The companies pay for all articles that are burned, as long as the damage has been done in your own house."
On hearing this advice the little woman calmed down immediately, and then, after a moment's reflection, she said to her husband:
"To-morrow, before going to your office, you will go to the Maternelle Insurance Company, show them the state your umbrella is in, and make them pay for the damage."
M. Oreille fairly jumped, he was so startled at the proposal.
"I would not do it for my life! It is eighteen francs lost, that is all. It will not ruin us."
The next morning he took a walking-stick when he went out, for, luckily, it was a fine day.
Left at home alone, Mme Oreille could not get over the loss of her eighteen francs by any means. She had put the umbrella on the dining-room table, and she looked at it without being able to come to any determination.
Every moment she thought of the insurance company, but she did not dare to encounter the quizzical looks of the gentlemen who might receive her, for she was very, timid before people, and grew red at a mere nothing, feeling embarrassed when she had to speak to strangers.
But regret at the loss of the eighteen francs pained her as if she had been wounded. She tried not to think of it any more, and yet every moment the recollection of the loss struck her painfully. What was she to do, however? Time went on, and she could not decide; but suddenly, like all cowards, she made up her mind.
"I will go, and we will see what will happen."
But first of all she was obliged to prepare the umbrella so that the disaster might be complete, and the reason of it quite evident. She took a match from the mantelpiece, and between the ribs she burned a hole as big as the palm of her hand. Then she rolled it up carefully, fastened it with the elastic band, put on her bonnet and shawl, and went quickly toward the Rue de Rivoli, where the insurance office was.
But the nearer she got the slower she walked. What was she going to say, and what reply would she get?
She looked at the numbers of the houses; there were still twenty-eight. That was all right, she had time to consider, and she walked slower and slower. Suddenly she saw a door on which was a large brass plate with "La Maternelle Fire Insurance Office" engraved on it. Already! She waited for a moment, for she felt nervous and almost ashamed; then she went past, came back, went past again, and came back again.
At last she said to herself:
"I must go in, however, so I may as well do it now as later."
She could not help noticing, however, how her heart beat as she entered. She went into an enormous room with grated wicket openings all round, and a man behind each of them, and as a gentleman, carrying a number of papers, passed her, she stopped him and said, timidly:
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but can you tell me where I must apply for payment for anything that has been accidentally burned?"
He replied in a sonorous voice:
"The first door on the left; that is the department you want."
This frightened her still more, and she felt inclined to run away, to make no claim, to sacrifice her eighteen francs. But the idea of that sum revived her courage, and she went upstairs, out of breath, stopping at almost every other step.
She knocked at a door which she saw on the first landing, and a clear voice said, in answer:
"Come in!"
She obeyed mechanically, and found herself in a large room where three solemn gentlemen, each with a decoration in his buttonhole, were standing talking.
One of them asked her: "What do you want, Madame?"
She could hardly get out her words, but stammered: "I have come—I have come on account of an accident, something—"
He very politely pointed out a seat to her.
"If you will kindly sit down I will attend to you in a moment."
And, returning to the other two, he went on with the conversation.
"The company, gentlemen, does not consider that it is under any obligation to you for more than four hundred thousand francs, and we can pay no attention to your claim to the further sum of a hundred thousand, which you wish to make us pay. Besides that, the surveyor's valuation—"
One of the others interrupted him:
"That is quite enough, Monsieur; the law-courts will decide between us, and we have nothing further to do than to take our leave." And they went out after mutual ceremonious bows.
Oh! if she could only have gone away with them, how gladly she would have done it; she would have run away and given up everything. But it was too late, for the gentleman came back, and said, bowing:
"What can I do for you, Madame?"
She could scarcely speak, but at last she managed to say:
"I have come—for this."
The manager looked at the object which she held out to him in mute astonishment. With trembling fingers she tried to undo the elastic, and succeeded, after several attempts, and hastily opened the damaged remains of the umbrella.
"It looks to me to be in a very bad state of health," he said, compassionately.
"It cost me twenty francs," she said, with some hesitation.
He seemed astonished. "Really! As much as that?"
"Yes, it was a capital article, and I wanted you to see the state it is in."
"Very well, I see; very well. But I really do not understand what it can have to do with me."
She began to feel uncomfortable; perhaps this company did not pay for such small articles, and she said:
"But—it is burned."
He could not deny it.
"I see that very well," he replied.
She remained open-mouthed, not knowing what to say next; then suddenly forgetting that she had left out the main thing, she said hastily:
"I am Mme Oreille; we are assured in La Maternelle, and I have come to claim the value of this damage. I only want you to have it re-covered," she added quickly, fearing a positive refusal.
The manager was rather embarrassed, and said:
"But, really, Madame, we do not sell umbrellas; we cannot undertake such kinds of repairs."
The little woman felt her courage reviving; she was not going to give up without a struggle; she was not even afraid now, so she said:
"I only want you to pay me the cost of repairing it; I can quite well get it done myself."
The gentleman seemed rather confused.
"Really, Madame, it is such a very small matter! We are never asked to give compensation for such trivial losses. You must allow that we cannot make good pocket-handkerchiefs, gloves, brooms, slippers, all the small articles which are every day exposed to the chances of being burned."
She got red, and felt inclined to fly into a rage.
"But Monsieur, last December one of our chimneys caught fire, and caused at least five hundred francs' damage. M. Oreille made no claim on the company, and so it is only just that it should pay for my umbrella now."
The manager, guessing that she was telling a lie, said, with a smile:
"You must acknowledge, Madame, that it is very surprising that M. Oreille should have asked no compensation for damages amounting to five hundred francs, and should now claim five or six francs for mending an umbrella."
She was not the least put out, and replied:
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, the five hundred francs affected M. Oreille's pocket, whereas this damage, amounting to eighteen francs, concerns Mme Oreille's pocket only, which is a totally different matter."
As he saw that he had no chance of getting rid of her, and that he would only be wasting his time, he said, resignedly:
"Will you kindly tell me how the damage was done?"
She felt that she had won the victory, and said:
"This is how it happened. Monsieur: In our hall there is a bronze stick and umbrella-stand, and the other day, when I came in, I put my umbrella into it. I must tell you that just above there is a shelf for the candlesticks and matches. I put out my hand, took three or four matches, and struck one, but it missed fire, so I struck another, which ignited, but went out immediately, and a third did the same."
The manager interrupted her, to make a joke.
"I suppose they were Government matches, then?"
She did not understand him, and went on:
"Very likely. At any rate, the fourth caught fire, and I lit my candle, and went into my room to go to bed; but in a quarter-of-an-hour I fancied that I smelled something burning, and I have always been terribly afraid of fire. If ever we have an accident it will not be my fault, I assure you. I am terribly nervous since our chimney was on fire, as I told you; so I got up, and hunted about everywhere, sniffing like a dog after game, and at last I noticed that my umbrella was burning. Most likely a match had fallen between the folds and burned it. You can see how it has damaged it."
The manager had taken his clue, and asked her:
"What do you estimate the damage at?"
She did not know what to say, as she was not certain what amount to put on it, but at last she replied:
"Perhaps you had better get it done yourself. I will leave it to you."
He, however, naturally refused.
"No, Madame, I cannot do that. Tell me the amount of your claim, that is all I want to know."
"Well!—I think that—Look here. Monsieur, I do not want to make any money out of you, so I will tell you what we will do. I will take my umbrella to the maker, who will re-cover it in good, durable silk, and I will bring the bill to you. Will that suit you, Monsieur?"
"Perfectly, Madame; we will settle it on that basis. Here is a note for the cashier, who will repay you whatever it costs you."
He gave Mme Oreille a slip of paper. She took it, got up, and went out, thanking him, for she was in a hurry to escape lest he should change his mind.
She went briskly through the streets, looking out for a really good umbrella-maker, and when she found a shop which appeared to be a first-class one, she went in, and said, confidently:
"I want this umbrella re-covered in silk, good silk. Use the very best and strongest you have; I don't mind what it costs."
It was all an accident, a pure accident. Tired of standing, Baron d'Étraille went—as all the Princess's rooms were open on that particular evening—into an empty bedroom, which appeared almost dark after coming-out of the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms.
He looked round for a chair in which to doze, as he was sure his wife would not go away before daylight. As soon as he got inside the door he saw the big bed with its azure-and-gold hangings, in the middle of the great room, looking like a catafalque in which love was buried, for the Princess was no longer young. Behind it, a large bright spot looked like a lake seen at a distance from a window. It was a big looking-glass, discreetly covered with dark draperies that were sometimes let down, and often opened up, and it seemed to look at the bed, which was its accomplice. One might almost fancy that it felt regrets, and that one was going to see in it the charming shapes of the thighs of women and the gentle movement of arms about to embrace them.
The Baron stood still for a moment, smiling and rather moved, on the threshold of this chamber dedicated to love. But suddenly something appeared in the looking-glass, as if the phantoms which he had evoked had come up before him. A man and a woman who had been sitting on a low couch hidden in the shade had risen, and the polished surface, reflecting their figures, showed that they were kissing each other before separating.
The Baron recognised his wife and the Marquis de Cervigné. He turned and went away like a man fully master of himself, and waited till it was day before taking away the Baronne. But he had no longer any thoughts of sleeping.
As soon as they were alone, he said:
"Madame, I saw you just now in the Princess de Raynes's room. I need say no more, for I am not fond either of reproaches, acts of violence, or of ridicule. As I wish to avoid all such things, we shall separate without any scandal. Our lawyers will settle your position according to my orders. You will be free to live as you please when you are no longer under my roof; but, as you will continue to bear my name, I must warn you that should any scandal arise, I shall show myself inflexible."
She tried to speak, but he stopped her, bowed, and left the room.
He was more astonished and sad than unhappy. He had loved her dearly during the first period of their married life; but his ardour had cooled, and now he often had a caprice, either in a theatre or in society, though he always preserved a certain liking for the Baronne.
She was very young, hardly four-and-twenty, small, thin,—too thin,—and very fair. She was a true Parisian doll: clever, spoiled, elegant, coquettish, witty, with more charm than real beauty. He used to say familiarly to his brother, when speaking of her:
"My wife is charming, attractive, but—there is nothing to lay hold of. She is like a glass of champagne that is all froth—when you have got to the wine it is very good, but there is too little of it, unfortunately."
He walked up and down the room in great agitation, thinking of a thousand things. At one moment he felt in a great rage, and felt inclined to give the Marquis a good thrashing, to horsewhip him publicly, in the club. But he thought that would not do, it would not be the thing;bewould be laughed at, and not the other, and he felt that his anger proceeded more from wounded vanity than from a broken heart. So he went to bed, but could not get to sleep.
A few days afterward it was known in Paris that the Baron and Baronne d'Étraille had agreed to an amicable separation on account of incompatibility of temper. Nobody suspected anything, nobody laughed, and nobody was astonished.
The Baron, however, to avoid meeting her, travelled for a year; then he spent the summer at the seaside, and the autumn in shooting, returning to Paris for the winter. He did not meet his wife once.
He did not even know what people said about her. At any rate, she took care to save appearances, and that was all he asked for.
He got dreadfully bored, travelled again, restored his old castle of Villebosc—which took him two years; then for over a year he received relays of friends there, till at last, tired of all these commonplace, so-called pleasures, he returned to his mansion in the Rue de Lilles, just six years after their separation.
He was then forty-five, with a good crop of gray hair, rather stout, and with that melancholy look of people who have been handsome, sought after, much liked, and are deteriorating daily.
A month after his return to Paris he took cold on coming out of his club, and had a bad cough, so his doctor ordered him to Nice for the rest of the winter.
He started by the express on Monday evening. He was late, got to the station only a very short time before the departure of the train, and had barely time to get into a carriage, with only one other occupant, who was sitting in a corner so wrapped in furs and cloaks that he could not even make out whether it were a man or a woman, as nothing of the figure could be seen. When he perceived that he could not find out, he put on his travelling-cap, rolled himself up in his rugs, and stretched himself out comfortably to sleep.
He did not wake up till the day was breaking, and looked immediately at his fellow-traveller. He had not stirred all night, and seemed still to be sound asleep.
M. d'Étraille made use of the opportunity to brush his hair and his beard, and to try and freshen himself up a little generally, for a night's travelling changes one's looks very much when one has attained a certain age.
A great poet has said:
Quand on est jeune, on a des matins triomphants!
Then we wake up with a cool skin, a bright eye, and glossy hair. When one grows older one wakes up in a very different state. Dull eyes, red, swollen cheeks, dry lips, the hair and beard all disarranged, impart an old, fatigued, worn-out look to the face.
The Baron opened his travelling dressing-case, made himself as tidy as he could, and then waited.
The engine whistled and the train stopped, and his neighbour moved. No doubt he was awake. They started off again, and then an oblique ray of the sun shone into the carriage just on to the sleeper, who moved again, shook himself, and then calmly showed his face.
It was a young, fair, pretty, stout woman, and the Baron looked at her in amazement. He did not know what to believe. He could really have sworn that it was his wife—but wonderfully changed for the better: stouter—why, she had grown as stout as he was—only it suited her much better than it did him.
She looked at him quietly, did not seem to recognise him, and then slowly laid aside her wraps. She had that calm assurance of a woman who is sure of herself, the insolent audacity of a first awaking, knowing and feeling that she was in her full beauty and freshness.
The Baron really lost his head. Was it his wife, or somebody else who was as like her as any sister could be? As he had not seen her for six years he might be mistaken.
She yawned, and he knew her by the gesture. She turned and looked at him again, calmly, indifferently, as if she scarcely saw him, and then looked out at the country again.
He was upset and dreadfully perplexed, and waited, looking at her sideways, steadfastly.
Yes; it was certainly his wife. How could he possibly have doubted? There could certainly not be two noses like that, and a thousand recollections flashed through him, slight details of her body, a beauty-spot on one of her limbs and another on her back. How often he had kissed them! He felt the old feeling of the intoxication of love stealing over him, and he called to mind the sweet odour of her skin, her smile when she put her arms on to his shoulders, the soft intonations of her voice, all her graceful, coaxing ways.
But how she had changed and improved! It was she and yet not she. He thought her riper, more developed, more of a woman, more seductive, more desirable, adorably desirable.
And this strange, unknown woman, whom he had accidentally met in a railway-carriage belonged to him; he had only to say to her:
"I insist upon it."
He had formerly slept in her arms, existed only in her love, and now he had found her again certainly, but so changed that he scarcely knew her. It was another, and yet she at the same time. It was another who had been born, formed, and grown since he had left her. It was she, indeed; she whom he had possessed but whom he found with her manners modified, her features more formed, her smile less affected, her gestures surer. There were two women in one, mingling a great deal of what was new and unknown with many sweet recollections of the past. There was something extraordinary, disturbing, exciting about it—a kind of mystery of love in which there floated a delicious confusion. It was his wife in a new body and in new flesh which his lips had never pressed.
And he remembered that in six or seven years everything changes in us, only outlines can be recognised, and sometimes even they disappear.
The blood, the hair, the skin, all change, and are reconstituted, and when people have not seen each other for a long time they find, when they meet, another totally different being, although it be the same and bear the same name.
And the heart also can change. Ideas may be modified and renewed, so that in forty years of life we may, by gradual and constant transformations, become four or five totally new and different beings.
He dwelt on this thought till it troubled him; it had first taken possession of him when he surprised her in the Princess's room. He was not the least angry; it was not the same woman that he was looking at—that thin, excitable little doll of those days.
What was he to do? How should he address her? and what could he say to her? Had she recognised him?
The train stopped again. He got up, bowed, and said: "Berthe, do you want anything I can bring you?"
She looked at him from head to foot, and answered, without showing the slightest surprise or confusion or anger, but with the most perfect indifference:
"I do not want anything—thank you."
He got out and walked up and down the platform a little in order to think, and, as it were, to recover his senses after a fall. What should he do now? If he got into another carriage it would look as if he were running away. Should he be gallant? That would look as if he were asking for forgiveness. Should he speak as if he were her master? He would look like a cad, and besides, he really had no right to do so.
He got in again and took his place.
During his absence she had hastily arranged her dress and hair, and was now lying stretched out on the seat, radiant, but without showing any emotion.
He turned to her, and said: "My dear Berthe, since this singular chance has brought us together after a separation of six years—a quite friendly separation—are we to continue to look upon each other as irreconcilable enemies? We are shut up together, tête-à-tête, which is so much the better or so much the worse. I am not going to get into another carriage, so don't you think it is preferable to talk as friends till the end of our journey?"
She answered quite calmly again:
"Just as you please."
Then he suddenly stopped, really not knowing what to say; but as he had plenty of assurance, he sat down on the middle seat, and said:
"Well, I see I must court you; so much the better. It is, however, really a pleasure, for you are charming. You cannot imagine how you have improved in the last six years. I do not know any woman who could give me that delightful sensation which I experienced just now when you emerged from your wraps. I could really have thought such a change impossible."
Without moving her head or looking at him, she said: "I cannot say the same with regard to you; you have certainly deteriorated a great deal."
He got red and confused, and then, with a smile of resignation, he said:
"You are rather hard."
"Why?" was her reply. "I am only stating facts. I don't suppose you intend to offer me your love? It must, therefore, be a matter of perfect indifference to you what I think about you. But I see it is a painful subject, so let us talk of something else. What have you been doing since I last saw you?"
He felt rather out of countenance, and stammered:
"I? I have travelled, hunted, and grown old, as you see. And you?"
She said, quite calmly: "I have always kept up appearances, as you ordered me."
He was very nearly saying something brutal, but he checked himself, and kissed his wife's hand:
"And I thank you," he said.
She was surprised. He was indeed strong and always master of himself.
He went on: "As you have acceded to my first request, shall we now talk without any bitterness?"
She made a little gesture of disdain.
"Bitterness! I don't feel any; you are a complete stranger to me; I am only trying to keep up a difficult conversation."
He was still looking at her, carried away in spite of her harshness, and he felt seized with a brutal desire, the desire of the master.
Perceiving that she had hurt his feelings, she said:
"How old are you now? I thought you were younger than you look."
He grew rather pale:
"I am forty-five;" and then he added: "I forgot to ask after Princess de Raynes. Are you still intimate with her?"
She looked at him as if she hated him:
"Yes, certainly I am. She is very well, thank you."
They remained sitting side by side, agitated and irritated. Suddenly he said:
"My dear Berthe, I have changed my mind. You are my wife, and I expect you to come with me to-day. You have, I think, improved both morally and physically, and I am going to take you back again. I am your husband and it is my right to do so."
She was quite taken aback, and looked at him, trying to divine his thoughts; but his face was resolute and impenetrable.
"I am very sorry," she said, "but I have made other engagements."
"So much the worse for you," was his reply. "The law gives me the power, and I mean to use it."
They were getting to Marseilles, and the train whistled and slackened speed. The Baronne got up, carefully rolled up her wraps, and then turning to her husband, she said:
"My dear Raymond, do not make a bad use of the tête-à-tête which I had carefully prepared. I wished to take precautions, according to your advice, so that I might have nothing to fear from you or from other people, whatever might happen. You are going to Nice, are you not?"
"I shall go wherever you go."
"Not at all; just listen to me, and I am sure that you will leave me in peace. In a few moments, when we get to the station, you will see the Princess de Raynes and the Comtesse Henriot waiting for me with their husbands. I wished them to see us, and to know that we had spent the night together in the railway-carriage. Don't be alarmed; they will tell it everywhere as a most surprising fact.
"I told you just now that I had most carefully followed your advice and saved appearances. Anything else does not matter, does it? Well, in order to do so, I wished to be seen with you. You told me carefully to avoid any scandal, and I am avoiding it, for, I am afraid—I am afraid—"
She waited till the train had quite stopped, and as her friends ran up to open the carriage door, she said:
"I am afraid that I am enceinte."
The Princess stretched out her arms to embrace her, and the Baronne said, pointing to the Baron, who was dumb with astonishment, and trying to get at the truth:
"You do not recognise Raymond? He has certainly changed a good deal, and he agreed to come with me so that I might not travel alone. We take little trips like this occasionally, like good friends who cannot live together. We are going to separate here; he has had enough of me already."
She put out her hand, which he took mechanically, and then she jumped out on to the platform among her friends, who were waiting for her.
The Baron hastily shut the carriage door, for he was too much disturbed to say a word or come to any determination. He heard his wife's voice, and their merry laughter as they went away.
He never saw her again, nor did he ever discover whether she had told him a lie or was speaking the truth.
Some people are born with a predominant instinct, with some vocation or some desire aroused, from the very moment they begin to speak or to think.
Ever since he was a child Monsieur Sacrement had only had one idea in his head—to be decorated. When he was still quite a small boy he used to wear a zinc Cross of the Legion of Honour just as other children wear a soldier's cap, and he took his mother's hand in the street with a proud look, sticking out his little chest with its red ribbon and metal star so that it might show to advantage.
His studies were not a success, and he failed in his examination for Bachelor of Arts; so, not knowing what to do, he married a pretty girl, for he had plenty of money of his own.
They lived in Paris, like many rich middle-class people do, mixing with their own particular set, without going among other people, proud of knowing a Deputy, who might perhaps be a Minister some day, while two heads of government departments were among their friends.
But Monsieur Sacrement could not get rid of his one absorbing idea, and he was very unhappy because he had not the right to wear a little bit of coloured ribbon in his buttonhole.
When he met any men who were decorated on the Boulevards, he looked at them askance, with intense jealousy. Sometimes, when he had nothing to do in the afternoon, he would count them, and say to himself: "Just let me see how many I shall meet between the Madeleine and the Rue Drouot."
Then he would walk slowly, looking at every coat, with a practiced eye, for the little bit of red ribbon, and when he had got to the end of his walk he always said the numbers out loud. "Eight officers and seventeen knights. As many as that! It is stupid to sow the Cross broadcast in that fashion. I wonder how many I shall meet going back?"
And he returned slowly, unhappy when the crowd of passers-by interfered with his seeing them.
He knew the places where most of them were to be found. They swarmed in the Palais Royal. Fewer were seen in the Avenue de l'Opéra than in the Rue de la Paix, while the right side of the Boulevard was more frequented by them than the left.
They also seemed to prefer certain cafés and theatres. Whenever he saw a group of white-haired old gentlemen standing together in the middle of the pavement, interfering with the traffic, he used to say to himself: "They are officers of the Legion of Honour," and he felt inclined to take off his hat to them.
He had often remarked that the officers had a different bearing from mere knights. They carried their heads higher, and you felt that they enjoyed greater official consideration, and a more widely-extended importance.
Sometimes M. Sacrement would be seized with a furious hatred for everyone who was decorated; he felt like a Socialist towards them. Then, when he got home, excited at meeting so many Crosses,—just like a poor hungry wretch is on passing some dainty provision-shop,—he used to ask in a loud voice:
"When shall we get rid of this wretched government?" And his wife would be surprised, and ask:
"What is the matter with you to-day?"
"I am indignant," he would reply, "at the injustice I see going on around us. Oh! the Communards were certainly right!"
After dinner he would go out again and look at the shops where all the decorations were sold, and examine all the emblems of various shapes and colours. He would have liked to possess them all, and to have walked gravely at the head of a procession with his opera-hat under his arm and his breast covered with decorations, radiant as a star, amid a buzz of admiring whispers and a hum of respect. But, alas! he had no right to wear any decoration whatever.
He used to say to himself: "It is really too difficult for any man to obtain the Legion of Honour unless he is some public functionary. Suppose I try to get appointed an officer of the Academy!"
But he did not know how to set about it, and spoke to his wife on the subject, who was stupefied.
"Officer of the Academy! What have you done to deserve it?"
He got angry. "I know what I am talking about; I only want to know how to set about it. You are quite stupid at times."
She smiled. "You are quite right; I don't understand anything about it."
An idea struck him: "Suppose you were to speak to M. Rosselin, the Deputy, he might be able to advise me. You understand I cannot broach the subject to him directly. It is rather difficult and delicate, but coming from you it might seem quite natural."
Mme Sacrement did what he asked her, and M. Rosselin promised to speak to the Minister about it. Then Sacrement began to worry him, till the Deputy told him he must make a formal application and put forward his claims.
"What were his claims?" he said. "He was not even a Bachelor of Arts."
However, he set to work and produced a pamphlet, with the title, "The People's Right to Instruction," but he could not finish it for want of ideas.
He sought for easier subjects, and began several in succession. The first was, "The Instruction of Children by Means of the Eye." He wanted gratuitous theatres to be established in every poor quarter of Paris for little children. Their parents were to take them there when they were quite young, and, by means of a magic-lantern, all the notions of human knowledge were to be imparted to them. There were to be regular courses. The sight would educate the mind, while the pictures would remain impressed on the brain, and thus science would, so to say, be made visible. What could be more simple than to teach universal history, natural history, geography, botany, zoölogy, anatomy, etc., etc., thus?
He had his ideas printed in tract form, and sent a copy to each Deputy, ten to each Minister, fifty to the President of the Republic, ten to each Parisian, and five to each provincial newspaper.
Then he wrote on "Street Lending-Libraries." His idea was to have little carts full of books drawn about the streets, like orange-carts are. Every householder or lodger would have a right to ten volumes a month by means of a half-penny subscription.
"The people," M. Sacrement said, "will only disturb itself for the sake of its pleasures, and since it will not go to instruction, instruction must come to it," etc., etc.
His essays attracted no attention, but he sent in his application, and he got the usual formal official reply. He thought himself sure of success, but nothing came of it.
Then he made up his mind to apply personally. He begged for an interview with the Minister of Public Instruction, and he was received by a young subordinate, already very grave and important, who kept touching the buttons of electric-bells to summon ushers, and footmen, and officials inferior to himself. He declared to the applicant that his case was going on quite favourably, and advised him to continue his remarkable labours. So M. Sacrement set at it again.
M. Rosselin, the Deputy, seemed now to take a great interest in his success, and gave him a lot of excellent, practical advice. Rosselin was decorated, although nobody knew exactly what he had done to deserve such a distinction.
He told Sacrement what new studies he ought to undertake; he introduced him to learned Societies which took up particularly obscure points of science, in the hope of gaining credit and honours thereby; and he even took him under his wing at the Ministry.
One day, when he came to lunch with his friend (for several months past he had constantly taken his meals there), he said to him in a whisper as he shook hands: "I have just obtained a great favour for you. The Committee on Historical Works is going to intrust you with a commission. There are some researches to be made in various libraries in France."
Sacrement was so delighted that he could scarcely eat or drink, and a week later he set out. He went from town to town, studying catalogues, rummaging in lofts full of dusty volumes, and was a bore to all the librarians.
One day, happening to be at Rouen, he thought he should like to embrace his wife, whom he had not seen for more than a week, so he took the nine o'clock train, which would land him at home by twelve at night.
He had his latchkey, so he went in without making any noise, delighted at the idea of the surprise he was going to give her. She had locked herself in. How tiresome! However, he cried out through the door:
"Jeanne, it is I."
She must have been very frightened, for he heard her jump out of bed and speak to herself, as if she were in a dream. Then she went to her dressing-room, opened and closed the door, and went quickly up and down her room barefoot two or three times, shaking the furniture till the vases and glasses sounded. Then at last she asked:
"Is it you, Alexander?"
"Yes, yes," he replied; "make haste and open the door."
As soon as she had done so she threw herself into his arms, exclaiming:
"Oh! what a fright! What a surprise! What a pleasure!"
He began to undress himself methodically, as he did everything, and from a chair he took his overcoat, which he was in the habit of hanging up in the hall. But, suddenly, he remained motionless, struck dumb with astonishment—there was a red ribbon in the buttonhole!