It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan’s, at the Pavillon-Français. It was one of the red-letter days of my bachelorhood.
Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugénie. I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile on her lips.
“You must admit,” she said, “that the snow is all that is needed to make the resemblance complete.”
It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.
“You here, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in search of memories.”
“I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I passed these statues, I remembered a certain assignation, one winter, and I confess that I was thinking of you.”
“Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?”
“If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less—you can hardly detect the difference.”
“Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!”
“I do not see that I have said anything to you that——”
“Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?”
“Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball.”
“Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?”
“Lovely.”
“A widow or unmarried?”
“Unmarried.”
“How old?”
“Twenty years.”
“Has she—you know what?”
“I can tell you that better to-morrow, if I should happen to see you.”
“Are you the best man?”
“Better than that.”
“Better than that! What! Do you mean—Oh, no! that is impossible. You are not going to be married?”
“Why is it impossible?”
“Because you don’t do such crazy things as that.”
“I don’t know whether marriage is always a crazy thing, but I can assure you that I was married this morning, and that, far from regretting it, I congratulate myself upon it.”
“Oh! if it was only this morning, that is easy to understand.—What! are you really married, Henri? Ha! ha! how amusing it is!”
“What is there so amusing about it?”
“Ha! ha! ha! Poor Henri! You are married! Upon my word, I can’t get over it. But I promise you that it gives me the very greatest pleasure! Ha! ha! ha!”
Lucile’s sneering laughter had an ironical note that began to irritate me. I bowed to her and turned away, but she detained me.
“By the way, one moment, monsieur; it is probable that I shall not have the pleasure of talking with you again for a long time, for a married man doesn’t go out without his wife. So yours is very pretty, is she?”
“Yes.”
“And are you very much in love with her?”
“More than I have ever been.”
“Oh! how frank!”
“Why shouldn’t I say what I think?”
“To be sure. Then you must try to make her love you more than you have ever been loved. Ha! ha!”
“I think that that will not be difficult.”
“Do you think so? You may be mistaken.”
“Excuse me, madame, if I leave you; but my wife must have finished dressing, and I must return for her.”
“If your wife is waiting for you, why, go, monsieur; and see to it that she never waits for anybody else. Ha! ha!”
I saw that Lucile had not forgiven me. I left her. I was unable to conceal the vexation that that woman caused me to feel. I jumped into the carriage which took me back to Eugénie. She was waiting for me; the sight of her, a single word from her lips, speedily dissipated that slight cloud. Eugénie was dazzling; her charms, her graces, her lovely dress, everything combined to add fascination to her aspect. I took her hand.
“It is time to go to the ball; let us start,” said Madame Dumeillan and my mother. I held Eugénie’s hand, I was looking at my wife, and I had forgotten everything else.
Our appearance in the salons was greeted with a flattering murmur. Words of praise rang in my ears, and I admit that they flattered my heart too; it was my wife who was the object of universal admiration. Eugénie blushed and lowered her eyes; but it would have been difficult for her to avoid hearing the compliments which were rained upon her as she passed.
There were many people already there, and my acquaintances came forward to greet me. Giraud took my hand and pressed it. I felt inclined to be friendly with everyone, I was so happy! The men crowded about my wife to obtain the favor of dancing with her; they took their numbers, and I overheard one of them say that he was number twenty-six. Judging from that, it was evident that I could not look forward to dancing with my wife that night. But I made the best of it, and invited other ladies to dance.
I spied a little man, pushing and jostling everybody to make a passage for himself; it was Bélan, escorting a young lady who was at least a head taller than he, and with whom he was about to dance. When they passed me, they stopped, and he said to me:
“My friend, this is Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire, of whom I have spoken to you so often.”
I bowed low before Mademoiselle Armide, who was neither beautiful nor ugly, and whose eyes were almost as large as her mouth; but there was in her face and in her whole person something stiff and prim which smelt of the province a league away.
People crowded around Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide to see them dance. The little man danced very well; and as he had a very good figure, he had procured tight trousers, a tight coat and a tight waistcoat; there was not a fold to be seen on his whole body; if his face had been black you would have thought that he was a little negro in puris naturalibus.
Between the contradances I struggled through the crowd, to try to introduce to my wife a crowd of people whom I hardly knew, but who said to me:
“Won’t you present me to madame?”
At midnight the crowd had become so great that it was difficult to move. Did I know all those people? No; but I had told several of my acquaintances to bring their acquaintances, and that sort of thing extends very far sometimes. However, it was a brilliant affair. There were lovely dresses and very pretty women; the men were well-dressed, and I saw none of those expressionless, ignoble faces, none of those old creased caps which one is surprised sometimes to see at a fashionable party, where however they often have more right to be than most people; for those unattractive, common faces which we see in corners at a wedding party usually belong to some uncle or some cousin whom it was impossible not to invite.
Three times I found Giraud eating ices or carrying them to his wife. He had brought only two of his children; the two older ones; that was very considerate of him. I was so happy that I asked Madame Giraud to dance, and she seemed highly flattered by that courtesy. But what did it matter to me with whom I danced when it was not Eugénie? I no longer thought of paying court to ladies; other times, other ideas.
“Your ball is delightful,” said Bélan, leading me into a salon where card playing was in progress, but where it was possible to move about. “There are at least four hundred people here.”
“Faith! I should be hard put to it to say how many there are here. If they are enjoying themselves, that is all that is necessary.”
“It will be like this at my wedding. What do you think of Armide?”
“She is very attractive.”
“And her eyes?”
“They are superb.”
“They are extraordinary, are they not? Well, my dear fellow, she has everything like that,—wit, talents, and such an air of distinction! Did you see us dancing together?”
“Yes.”
“Didn’t we get along well?”
“It is a pity that you are a little short beside her.”
“Short! you are joking. She is a little tall! However, when a man is built as I am, it is worth three inches of height. I certainly wouldn’t change figures with that tall, lanky man in front of us. Those tall fellows are always awkward. Have you seen Madame de Beausire?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Come then, and let me present you to her. You will see a woman who hasn’t a single touch of the plebeian; she is the type of true distinction.”
I submitted to be led away; I did whatever anyone wanted that night. I saw a tall, yellow woman who resembled a piece of old tapestry, and who looked as if she had never laughed since she came into the world. I made haste to bow and to run away. It seemed to me that one must necessarily catch the spleen in Madame de Beausire’s company.
The supper hour arrived; at last the ball was drawing to a close; and although I was not exactly bored, still I should have been very glad to be at home with my wife.
The ladies were conducted to their seats. I looked after the comfort of everybody; I saw that the tables, large and small alike, were properly waited upon.
“Pray rest a moment and eat something,” people said to me.
Much I thought about eating! I preferred to hurry the supper of that multitude.
I found Giraud and his two children sitting at a small table with three young men. Giraud had a currant cake on his knees, and he had slipped a bowl of jelly under the table, not choosing to pass it, for fear it would not come back to him. I called for fish, chickens, and pâté; I covered his children’s plates with cakes. Giraud was in ecstasy; he shook my hand, murmuring:
“This is one of the finest weddings I have ever seen, and God knows that I have seen a tremendous number of them!”
Madame Giraud, who had been obliged to leave the large table when the other ladies rose, walked behind her husband and children at that moment, with an enormous reticule hanging on her arm. While pretending to pass the gentlemen what they wanted, I saw that she kept opening the bag and thrusting cakes, biscuit, and even pie crust into it. Giraud, seeing that I had noticed his wife’s manœuvring, said to her angrily, as she was trying to force some macaroons into her bag:
“What on earth are you doing, Madame Giraud? What sort of manners are these? You are putting macaroons into your bag!”
“Just for Azor, my dear, the poor beast. He is so fond of macaroons, you know. They would be wasted, so what harm does it do? I want poor Azor to have a little of the pleasure of this party.”
“You know very well that I don’t like such things, Madame Giraud.”
I appeased Giraud, who pretended to be very angry; then I walked away, in order to leave his wife at full liberty; and she ended by making a perfect balloon of her bag.
Meanwhile, the tables were gradually deserted; many people returned to the ballroom, but many others entered their carriages, and I considered that the latter acted wisely.
The ball was more agreeable perhaps, because it was more comfortable to dance. Eugénie continued to be invited, and I must needs content myself with dancing opposite her; but there were figures in which we took each other’s hands, and then how many things we said by a soft pressure! it seems that the heart, that the very soul, passes into the beloved hand which presses ours lovingly.
The ranks became thinner. My mother had gone, and Madame Dumeillan was only awaiting our departure to follow her example. It was five o’clock. The daylight was beginning to show through the windows, and to lessen the brilliancy of the candles. The number of ladies diminished every moment. I went to Eugénie’s side.
“I am tired of dancing,” she said, “and yet I am afraid to refuse.”
“Why, it seems to me that we might venture to go now.”
She lowered her eyes and made no answer. I concluded that I had done enough for others and that I might think of myself at last. I took my wife’s hand and led her from the room; Madame Dumeillan followed us; we entered a carriage and drove away. We had to take Madame Dumeillan home first. It was a short distance, but it seemed very long to me. The nearer one’s happiness approaches, the more intense one’s impatience becomes.
We spoke but little in the mother’s presence. At last we reached her house, and I alighted. Madame Dumeillan embraced her daughter; it seemed to me that their embrace was interminable. Selfish creatures that we are! it did not occur to me that that was the last embrace in which a mother would hold her daughter, still a virgin, in her arms, and that I should have all the rest of my life to enjoy my privileges as a husband.
Madame Dumeillan entered her house. I returned to the carriage, and we drove on. At last I was alone with Eugénie, with my wife. I believe that that was the sweetest moment that I have ever known; it had seemed to me that it would never arrive. I put my arms about Eugénie; she wept when she embraced her mother; but I embraced her, and she ceased to weep, for I overwhelmed her with caresses, and unfamiliar sensations made her heart beat fast.
At last we reached my apartment, our apartment. The servant who was to live with us, and who had been in her mother’s service, was waiting for us in the concierge’s room, with a light; but it was broad day; we needed no service. My wife and I entered our home. I led her by the hand, I felt that she was trembling and I believe that I trembled too. It is a strange effect of happiness that it suffocates one, that it almost makes one ill.
I closed the doors and shot the bolts. I was alone with my wife! At last there was no third person with us! We were at liberty to love each other, to tell each other of our love, and to prove it!
How happiness makes the time fly! A fortnight after I became Eugénie’s husband it seemed to both of us that we had been married only the day before. That fortnight had passed so rapidly! It would be very difficult for me to say how we employed the time; we had no leisure to do anything. In the first place, we rose late, we breakfasted tête-à-tête, and then we talked; often I held Eugénie on my knees; people can understand each other better when they are close together.
We made a multitude of plans, our conversation being often interrupted by the kisses which I stole, or which she gave me. We were much surprised, when we glanced at the clock, to find that it was almost noon and that we had been talking for two hours. Then we had to think about dressing to go to see Madame Dumeillan, and sometimes to take a walk or drive. We continued to talk while we dressed. I would ask Eugénie to sing me a song, or to play something on the piano. If I chanced to have a visitor, or a client who kept me in my office fifteen minutes, when I came out I would find my wife already impatient at my long absence, and we would talk a few minutes more to make up to ourselves for the annoyance caused by my visitor. At last we would go out; but we always acted like school children and chose the longest way, so that it was almost dinner time when we reached my mother-in-law’s. We had been to the theatre twice since we were married; we preferred that to going to parties. At the theatre we were still alone and could talk when the play was dull; but in society one is never free to do whatever one pleases. We always returned home early, and we were always glad to get home. But, I say again, the time passed like a flash.
My wife found my apartment much to her liking; she told me that it was a pleasure to her to live where I had lived as a bachelor. She often questioned me about that period of my life, and listened to my answers with interest and curiosity; but I did not tell her everything; I slurred over many episodes; for I had discovered that Eugénie was jealous. Her brow darkened when there were women in my adventures, and she often interrupted me, saying angrily:
“That’s enough, hush! I don’t want to know any more!”
Then I would kiss her and say:
“My dear love, I didn’t know you then.”
But, despite my caresses, her ill humor always lasted some minutes.
However, it was necessary that we should do something else than talk and embrace. Eugénie agreed to teach me to play on the piano, and I to give her lessons in painting. But first of all, I began her portrait. That was an occupation which took an endless time, for we were constantly distraught; when I looked at my model, and she fastened her lovely eyes upon me and smiled affectionately at me, how could I always resist the desire to kiss her? And she would pout so prettily when I failed to lay aside my brush for a long while! At that I would rise and rush to my model and embrace her. Such episodes led me to think that painters must be very self-restrained, to resist the temptations they must experience when they are painting the portrait of a young and pretty woman. A woman whom we are painting looks at us as we wish her to look; we request a very sweet glance and smile, and she exerts herself to make her expression as pleasing and amiable as possible; for a woman always desires her picture to be fascinating.
For my own part, I had never needed to resist my desires, for I had painted none but my mistresses; but when one must needs scrutinize in detail innumerable charms, and stand quietly by one’s easel—ah! then, I repeat, one must be most virtuous, and that particular sort of virtue is not the characteristic quality of painters.
Despite our frequent distractions, I worked assiduously at my wife’s portrait; in ten sittings it was finished, and I was delighted with my work; the likeness was striking. Eugénie herself uttered a cry of surprise when she saw herself; but she feared that I had flattered her. No; I had not painted her, to be sure, as she was in company, when she looked at everybody indifferently, but as she was when she looked at me while I was painting her, with eyes overflowing with love. It seemed to me that I had done wisely to select that expression; for it was for myself and not for others that I had painted her portrait.
Next, I must needs paint my own; Eugénie insisted upon it. That was a much less amusing task, and I feared that it would be a long one. I had already given myself several sittings, and it seemed to me that it did not progress satisfactorily. Eugénie was not satisfied; she said:
“You have given yourself a sulky, sober look; that isn’t the way you look at me.”
“My dear love, it is because it is a bore to me to look at myself.”
“Oh! wait a moment, I have an idea. I will sit beside you; then, when you look in the glass, you will see me too, and I trust, monsieur, that you will not make faces at me.”
Eugénie’s idea impressed me as a charming one. Thanks to her invention, I was no longer bored when I sat for myself; for she was always there beside me, and when I looked in the mirror she was the first thing I saw; my portrait gained enormously thereby; I was able to paint myself as she wished, and she was as well pleased as I had been with hers.
I had her portrait set in a locket which I always wore; she had mine set in a bracelet which she always had on her arm. We were not content to have each other in reality, we must needs have each other’s image as well; if we could have possessed each other in any other way, we would have done it. But is it a mistake to love too dearly? Her mother and mine both declared that we were unreasonable, that we were worse than lovers; but Eugénie and I were determined never to change; we liked each other well enough as we were.
My wife insisted that I should begin to learn the piano; and I showed her how to use a brush. Those lessons were most delicious to us; and they occupied a large part of the day. I realized however that piano playing and painting would not make me eminent at the bar. Since my marriage I had neglected the Palais, and paid almost no attention to business; but when I would propose to study, to shut myself up in my office, Eugénie would detain me, saying:
“What is the use of worrying yourself, of tiring your brain over your Code and your Pandects? Are we not rich enough? Are we not happy? What is the need of your trying cases, of your tormenting yourself for other people? Stay with me, give me a lesson in painting, and don’t go to the Palais.”
I could not resist my wife. My mother scolded me sometimes for what she called my laziness. Love is not laziness, but a happy love makes us unfit for anything except making love.
Three months passed almost as rapidly as the first fortnight of our married life. But I had learned to play On Dit qu’à Quinze Ans on the piano, and Eugénie was making rapid progress in painting. A new subject of rejoicing added to our happiness: my wife was enceinte. We leaped for joy, we danced about the room, thinking that we were to have a child. We talked of nothing else, we made no plans for the future in which our son or daughter had not a share. Good Madame Dumeillan shared our delight; my mother complimented me, but without enthusiasm, and as if it were a very trifling matter; whereas it seemed to me that it ought to mark an epoch in the world’s history.
We went into society very rarely, and we had been to but two balls since our wedding. But one morning we received cards and an invitation to the wedding party of Monsieur Ferdinand de Bélan and Mademoiselle Armide de Beausire. Eugénie was not far enough advanced to fear that dancing would injure her; moreover, she promised to dance only a little; so we determined to go to Bélan’s wedding, where I had an idea that we should find something to laugh at. My wife agreed with me. Bélan had been to see us twice since we were married, and Eugénie considered that he made himself rather ridiculous by his chatter and his affectations. As for the Beausire family, the little that I had seen of them seemed to me rather amusing.
The invitation included, upon a separate sheet, an intimation that we were expected to attend the breakfast also.
That was a pleasure of which we determined to deprive ourselves. We mistrusted wedding breakfasts, which are about as amusing as an amateur concert or a parlor reading; we had made up our minds to go to the ball only, when Bélan appeared in our apartment.
The little dandy bowed to the floor before my wife, which was not a difficult feat for him; then he shook hands with me and said with an air of triumph:
“Did you receive our invitations?”
“Yes, my dear fellow. First, let us congratulate you.”
“I accept your congratulations with pleasure. I certainly have reason to be flattered by the preference accorded me. I had seventeen rivals, three of whom were millionaires who owned iron foundries, factories or coal mines; and two marquises, one of them with six decorations; but I beat them all; and like Cæsar, veni, vidi, vici. We may rely upon you, may we not?”
“Oh yes, we shall be at your ball.”
“And at the breakfast?”
“As to the breakfast, we cannot promise.”
“Oh! I beg your pardon, but I insist upon a promise. It would be horrid of you to fail us. We have invited only a small number of people for the morning, but most select. Two of my wife’s uncles, three cousins, and five aunts, all of whom are women of my mother-in-law’s type. Great heaven! my mother-in-law has done nothing but weep since our wedding day was fixed; she drenches at least four handkerchiefs a day, and she doesn’t let her daughter out of her sight. That embarrasses me a little in my effusions of sentiment, but my time will come. However, you must attend all the festivities. I address my entreaties to you, madame; Henri will not refuse you.”
Eugénie had not the heart to refuse; she glanced at me and we promised. Bélan thanked my wife and kissed her hand, then he asked me for two minutes in my office.
“Have you any lawsuit on hand?” I asked him when we were alone.
“No, but I want to consult you. Having just married a woman whom you adored, you will be able to tell me——”
“Tell you what?”
“I don’t know just how to put it. You know that I have been, like you, a lady’s man, never embarrassed in a tête-à-tête. I was like a flash of powder.”
“Well?”
“Well, it is very strange, but with Mademoiselle de Beausire, although I adore her, the effect is entirely different. It seems to me that I dare not squeeze the end of her finger. In short, I do not feel the slightest inclination to be enterprising. I confess that that worries me and makes me anxious; I don’t sleep at night; and the nearer my wedding day approaches, the more apprehensive I feel.”
“Ha! ha! Poor Bélan! nonsense! don’t be afraid! Real love, love that is too ardent, sometimes produces the effect which you complain of; but it does not last. And besides, what have you to fear with your wife? You are sure that she won’t escape you. She isn’t like a mistress, who often refuses to give you a second assignation when she is not pleased with the first. With one’s wife, what doesn’t happen the first night, will happen the second.”
“True; it might not happen till the eighth even. You make me feel a little easier in my mind. You see, Mademoiselle de Beausire—such a well-bred young woman as she is—isn’t like a grisette. Oh! with a grisette, it goes all alone.—And then the mother-in-law is always there!”
“I imagine that she won’t be there on your wedding night.”
“Faith! I wouldn’t swear to it. She does nothing but talk about not being parted from her daughter, and says that she can’t sleep away from her. I believe that she means to sleep in a closet adjoining our bedroom.”
“That will be very amusing for you!”
“It is that sort of thing that keeps going through my head and takes away my natural ardor. But no matter, between now and my wedding I will have everything I eat flavored with vanilla; I will even have some put in my soup. Adieu, my dear Blémont. We rely upon you. Your wedding was very fine, but just wait till you see mine. That’s all I have to say.”
Bélan went away. So we were simply compelled to attend the breakfast; we had promised. However, perhaps it would be more amusing than we thought. Indeed, there are parties which are so tiresome that they are actually comical. The only remedy was to make the best of things; they say that there is a good side to everything.
Eugénie gave her attention to her dresses; for she must have two for that day. I urged her not to lace herself too tightly; you can guess why. A woman should think about being a mother rather than try to make herself slender; but that is what she often forgets.
Bélan’s great day arrived. A carriage came for us, the coachman, and the groom behind, both dressed in apricot livery. I was compelled to admit that that feature already excelled my wedding, and I expected to see some magnificent things. We were to meet at Madame de Beausire’s, where I had never been. It was an old house, on Rue de la Roquette. We passed an old concierge; we ascended an old staircase, upon which rose leaves had been scattered profusely. I was sure that that was an idea of Bélan, and I did not consider it a very happy one, for it nearly caused my wife to fall; but I caught her in time, and she said with a smile:
“We were married without rose leaves, my dear.”
“Yes, my dear love; it was less romantic, but there was no slipping.”
We entered an apartment of extraordinary height, on the first floor. It was so high that I could hardly distinguish the mouldings of the ceiling. We were announced by an old servant, who seemed to have been weeping; perhaps that was a custom of the house. We were ushered into an immense salon, where Bélan, who was doing the honors, produced the impression of a dwarf amid a lot of Patagonians. We discovered a row of old faces, a sort of continuation of the tapestry of which Madame de Beausire had given me a specimen. The men were solemn, sententious and pretentious; the women stiff, affected and painted. There were a few people of our own set, but only a few. I concluded that Bélan had not obtained permission to invite many of his acquaintances. The poor fellow did not seem at his ease amid the Beausire family; he was afraid to be jovial, he dreaded to be dismal; he hovered about his new kindred, who did not talk for fear of compromising their dignity.
The groom was delighted when we arrived; he felt more at ease with us.
“You will see my wife presently,” he said to us; “just now she is with her mother, who is finishing her toilet, weeping.”
“What! is your mother-in-law weeping still?”
“Yes, my friend, that woman is a regular fountain.”
“But what is she weeping for?”
“Grief at separating from her daughter. And yet she does not propose to separate from her, for she declares that she will sleep in the same room with us.”
“In the same room? Ha! ha! that is rather strong.”
“I swear to you that that is what she says. Indeed, I believe that she hoped that I would not sleep with my wife; but on my word, despite all my respect for Madame de Beausire, I refused to give in on that point, and I think that Armide was glad of it. But here come the ladies.”
The bride entered, escorted on one side by an old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell, and on the other by her mother, who, with her tall, spare figure, her red eyes, and her leaden complexion, really looked like a ghost.
From the sighs heaved by those ladies, one would have thought that they were leading a second Iphigenia to the sacrifice. The relations came forward and delivered congratulations of the same style as their costumes. In the midst of it all, the bridegroom was the person to whom the least attention was paid. When he addressed his wife, she made no answer; when he turned to his mother-in-law, she took out her handkerchief and turned her back on him; and if he accosted any of the relations, they pretended to pay no attention to him.
We started for the church, each man escorting a lady; I gave my arm to my wife; for I did not see why I should deprive myself of that pleasure in favor of those creatures. We went downstairs, in the conventional order, Bélan at the head, escorting his mother-in-law. The rose leaves produced a wonderful impression.
“This is lovely!” said an old aunt; “it’s like a procession!”
“It’s an idea of mine!” cried Bélan; “I thought of it last night, while thinking of my wedding; and I am delighted that——”
Bélan had reached this point in his speech, when a tall cousin, who was escorting the bride, slipped down two steps and fell, dragging the fair Armide after him.
Shrieks arose on all sides. Thank heaven, Armide had fallen decently, and had made no exposé for the benefit of the company, which would have been most unpleasant for the husband, who hoped to be the first to behold her charms; and which would probably have made the mother-in-law sob anew.
The bride was quickly assisted to her feet, and the tall cousin rose unassisted, uttering a most vulgar oath and exclaiming:
“The devil take the rose leaves! A man must be an infernal fool to scatter them on a staircase! I have hurt my scrotum.”
Bélan was speechless with confusion at the accident due to his idea.
“Monsieur de Bélan, you must have all this swept away,” said the mother-in-law; and the bridegroom replied with a low bow:
“Yes, Madame de Beausire, I will look after it.”
Our betrothed were united in a small church in the Marais. Nothing extraordinary took place during the ceremony, except that the mother-in-law used two handkerchiefs, and that Bélan made horrible faces in his attempts to weep with her, but without success.
I had hoped that the breakfast would be at a restaurant; but we were bidden to return to the mother-in-law’s. That certainly required courage. Eugénie and I looked at each other, vowing, albeit a little late, that we would never be caught in such a scrape again.
The bridegroom went ahead, doubtless to have his rose leaves swept away. I was sure that he would do the sweeping himself rather than expose himself to his mother-in-law’s wrath.
A long table was laid in the dining-room. We took our seats; I was between the old aunt with a nose like a snail’s shell and the tall cousin who had fallen so hard on the stairway; my wife was a mile away from me, between two old uncles with lace cuffs and curly wigs. How we were likely to enjoy ourselves!
I expected to see Giraud and his wife at the breakfast, for Giraud had been declaring everywhere that it was he who had arranged Bélan’s marriage. But evidently the mother-in-law had not deemed them worthy of that honor, and we should not see them until evening.
The bride kept her eyes on the floor and did not eat. The mother-in-law looked at her daughter, wiped her eyes, and seemed not to realize that there was anybody there. We sat at the table two minutes without touching anything, no one having been requested to serve. Bélan, uncertain whether he was expected to do the honors, glanced at his wife and his mother-in-law in turn, and faltered:
“Who is to serve? Does Madame de Beausire desire me to serve?”
But Madame de Beausire replied only by blowing her nose and sighing.
I looked at my wife; I had such a mad desire to laugh that I dropped my knife and fork on the floor, so that I might indulge it a little while fumbling under the table. I chose to be considered awkward rather than discourteous.
At last an old uncle, who had not come to the wedding simply to look at the dishes, although that would have been more dignified than to eat them, drew an enormous pie toward him and gave the signal for the attack. We decided to breakfast, notwithstanding Madame de Beausire’s sighs; but we did it with a decorum and gravity which were interrupted only by the noise of the plates and the forks.
When the first edge of the appetite was dulled, some of the uncles and cousins were pleased to indulge in various significant phrases, dwelling upon every word they uttered, as if they considered that necessary in order that we should understand them. Bélan put in a word here and there, but it was not noticed. I discovered that he was trying to lead the conversation around to the subject of poetry. I felt certain that he had written some, or had had some written, and that he did not know how to set to work to recite it. Whenever he reached the subject, an uncle or an aunt would cut him short by speaking of something else. I felt sorry for him and said:
“My dear Bélan, has anyone written any poetry for your wedding?”
“Yes, just so; I myself have dashed off something in honor of this day, and with your permission, I will——”
“What! do you mean to say that you are going to sing, Monsieur de Bélan?” cried Madame de Beausire, with an almost threatening glance at her son-in-law. “For shame, monsieur! what sort of people have you lived with, where it was customary to sing at the table?”
“I never had any idea of singing, mother-in-law; nor have I any desire to. I meant simply to recite some verses,—verses which do not in the least degree resemble a song.”
“Verses at a wedding! You should leave that to the Almanach des Muses,” said the tall cousin, who sat beside me, and who still bore the groom a grudge on account of his fall on the stairs. At the same instant Madame de Beausire shrieked aloud:
“You are pale, Armide! Don’t you feel well, my child?”
I had not noticed that the bride had changed color; but as her mother told her that she had, Armide probably thought it best not to feel well. She passed her hand over her eyes and said in a faltering tone:
“No, I feel——”
Her mother did not allow her to finish. She sprang to her feet, crying:
“Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! Armide is dying! We must carry her to her bed.”
Instantly there was a general uprising. The aunt who was at my side thrust her elbow in my face in her attempt to rise quickly in order to go to the assistance of her niece, who thereupon concluded that she had best be ill altogether. While they were taking Armide to her room, and Bélan was running hither and thither like a madman, I went to my wife, took her hand and led her to the door, saying:
“This is quite enough for one morning.”
Bélan overtook us on the stairs, and called out to us:
“What! going already? Why, my wife will come to herself in a minute; I am not worried about her health; my mother-in-law is forever telling her that she is going to die, when she has no idea of doing anything of the kind.”
“We have an engagement.”
“Until this evening, then.”
“The ball is not to be at your mother-in-law’s, is it?”
“No, at Lointier’s. It will be magnificent.”
“We will be there.”
How glad we were to be alone again! We had plenty to laugh about, as we passed in review the original creatures whom we had met; and although my wife is not malicious, she was fully alive to the absurdities of the company.
We had promised to attend the ball, so we had no choice but to go; moreover, it was impossible that it should be so dreary a function as the breakfast; and then it was to take place in the same salons in which we had given ours, and we were not sorry to see them once more.
We went late, because we hoped to find the dancing well under way; but we were surprised to find the salons almost empty, and only two quadrilles in progress, so that everybody had plenty of room to dance. And yet it was after eleven o’clock.
Bélan came to meet us. His face was a yard long, and he said to me:
“It is most annoying: my mother-in-law would not allow me to invite more than thirty people; for she said that, with her family and acquaintances, that would be quite enough; and you see how much empty space there is. I am aware that the party is very select, but a few more people would do no harm.”
“One result, my dear Bélan, is that it is much more comfortable to dance.”
“Yes, that is so; the dancers will gain by it.”
“And madame is no longer ill?”
“No, that didn’t last. But now it is my mother-in-law’s turn to have fits of suffocation. Just look at her eyes; she’s a regular rabbit; she makes me sick. She is crying now because my wife dances every contradance; she declares that her daughter will be killed. Great heaven, what an emotional creature she is!”
“But I don’t see the Giraud family here, and that surprises me, for of course you invited them?”
“Mon Dieu! my dear Blémont, don’t speak of it. I was distressed to death, but my mother-in-law declared that the Girauds had manners which would be entirely out of place with her family, and she would not allow me to invite them.”
“But Madame de Beausire used to go to their house, if I remember aright?”
“Yes, but since the little Giraud girl stuck her tongue out at her, she has sworn that she will never put her foot inside their door.”
“I thought that Giraud was instrumental in arranging your marriage?”
“True, he did start the business.”
“And you haven’t invited him? He will never forgive you as long as he lives.”
“What could I do? My mother-in-law—But excuse me, I believe that she is motioning to me.”
We left Bélan, and I danced with my Eugénie. We were happy to dance together, to be again in those rooms which had been the scene of our own wedding. Our eyes expressed love and contentment. Surely we looked more as if we were at a wedding than anybody else there.
To dance is the best thing that one can do at a ball where one knows nobody. All those Beausires, who stalked solemnly about the quadrilles, and the old aunts who sat against the wall, seemed almost displeased to see other people apparently enjoying themselves. I felt sure that they considered us very ill-bred.
Eugénie proposed to me that we should go before the supper; but I preferred to remain, because I expected that there would be some amusing scenes at the close of the festivity. The supper was not served as mine was; the ladies alone were seated, and the men had to stand behind them. Madame de Beausire insisted upon having it so, because it was much less jolly than sitting at small tables.
The feast lasted a very short time. Madame de Beausire gave the signal by rising, and the other ladies had no choice but to follow her example. I heard one old aunt mutter as she rose: “This is ridiculous; I didn’t have time to finish my chicken wing.”
As the fatal moment drew near, Madame de Beausire’s eyes became more and more full of tears. At last, when the dancing drew to a close, Bélan approached his Armide and suggested that they should go; whereupon Madame de Beausire rushed between them, sobbing, and threw her arms about her daughter.
“You shall not separate us, monsieur!” she cried.
Bélan stood as if turned to stone before his mother-in-law. The kinsfolk surrounded them, and I heard the uncles and cousins say to one another:
“That little fellow is behaving in the most indecent way. It makes me ill to have him come into our family.”
The aunts and the old maids had led Madame de Beausire away, and she left the restaurant with her daughter, while Bélan remained. He saw us and came to bid us good-night, faltering:
“I have let my wife and her mother go before, because, you know, they have to put the bride to bed; and of course I cannot be there.”
“My dear Bélan, I am afraid that Madame de Beausire will make another scene to-night.”
“Oh, no! At all events, if she does, I will show my spirit.”
We drove away, and as we returned home, Eugénie and I agreed that a man is always very foolish to enter a family which thinks that it does him much honor by allying itself with him. If chance has willed that he should be born in a lower class, he should, by his intellect or his character, show himself superior to those who try to humiliate him.
A few days after Bélan’s wedding, we received a visit from Monsieur and Madame Giraud. I divined what brought them, and in truth they were hardly seated before Giraud exclaimed:
“You must have been greatly surprised not to see us at Bélan’s wedding?”
“In fact,” added Madame Giraud, “it made an impression on everybody. It was so terribly vulgar! So extraordinary! Just think of it! It was at our house that they met, and it was Giraud who took the first steps, who sounded Madame de Beausire, and who enumerated to her the young man’s property and good qualities; and yet we were not invited to the breakfast, or even to the ball! It’s an outrage!”
“More than that, it was indecent!” cried Giraud; “and if my wife hadn’t restrained me, I would have demanded satisfaction.”
“No, no; people would have thought that we cared about a wedding party; but thank God! we have more of them than we want. By the way, they say that that one was very dismal and tiresome!”
“Why, it was not very lively,” said Eugénie.
“Ah! yours was the lovely one, my dear Madame Blémont, and managed with such taste and such profusion! I confess that I had thirteen ices; salvers kept passing me, and I forgot myself.”
“Yes, that was a charming wedding,” said Giraud; “but they tell me that at Bélan’s there weren’t enough people to form two quadrilles of twelve, and that they were almost all outlandish creatures of the last century. And that old Beausire woman did nothing but cry. And then that night—do you know what happened?”
“No, we don’t know.”
“Well, I know all about it, because I have a maid who used to live in the house where the Beausires live, and who still has friends there. Well, that night the mother-in-law refused to leave her daughter. When the husband arrived, Madame de Beausire sobbed so that she woke the neighbors. Bélan lost his temper, and they had a terrible scene; finally, in a rage, he went to bed in a little closet where they keep coal, and the next morning he came out looking like a coal heaver! Poor fellow! If he doesn’t look out, those two women will shut him up in a foot-warmer, and feed him through the holes when he’s a good boy.—Ha! ha! It is too funny!” said Madame Giraud. “However, I won’t give him a year to be—you know what—and he will well have deserved it.”
Monsieur and Madame Giraud took leave of us, renewing the assurances of their friendship, and they probably went about to all their acquaintances to do the same thing.
As her pregnancy advanced, my wife felt called upon to attend to a thousand little duties which made it necessary for her to neglect music and painting. Moreover, her health was often poor, and she needed a great deal of rest; the result was that I had much more time to work in my office. Besides, the title of father, which I hoped soon to have, made me reflect more reasonably than I had done for some months past. Although our fortune was large enough for Eugénie and myself, it would cease to be large enough if we should have several children, and on their account it would be well for me to think of increasing it.
Bélan made his wedding call with his wife, who had lost none of her stiffness and primness since her marriage. I found that the new husband’s eyes were as red as his mother-in-law’s. Perhaps he too wept sometimes to gratify Madame de Beausire. He was so attentive, so devoted to his Armide, and he waited upon her with such humility, that he seemed like his wife’s servant.
We returned their visit ceremoniously, and we did not go again; we remembered their breakfast.
Since I had given my attention to business once more and had returned to the practice of my profession, my mother said that we had become reasonable and that I now had the aspect of a married man. I do not know what aspect I may have had, but I know that I considered that we were becoming altogether too sedate; we no longer played together or fooled the time away, as we did in the early days of our marriage.
The longed-for moment arrived at last. Eugénie made me the father of a daughter whom I considered a sweet little thing. My wife was disappointed for a moment, for she had hoped for a boy and had convinced herself that it would be a boy. For my own part, I was quite as well satisfied with a girl. I comforted Eugénie. My daughter, to whom her godmother, Madame Dumeillan, gave the name of Henriette, was placed in the charge of a stout, motherly nurse, who lived only three leagues from Paris, so that we could go often to see her. My wife soon recovered her health, but she retained some unevenness of temper and some caprices; what she decided to do in the morning she sometimes did not want to do at night. I am extremely good-natured, but I like to have people do what they have planned to do, and not act like weather vanes. My wife would express a wish to go to walk; and when I called her for that purpose, she would have changed her mind because it was necessary to change her dress; thereupon I would return laughing to my office.
“If you make up your mind to go,” I would say to her; “you must come and call me.”
As I passed through Rue du Temple one day, I heard someone call my name. It was Ernest, who was behind me. I was overjoyed to see him again and we shook hands warmly.
“Is it really you, my dear Ernest? Mon Dieu! How long it is since we saw each other!”
“Yes, more than a year. I suppose that you are married now; for you were just about to marry your dear Eugénie the last time that I saw you.”
“Yes, I am married and I am a father; I wasted no time, you see.”
“That is splendid. Do you still live in the same apartment?”
“Yes; my wife likes it very much. And you?”
“We live in this street, only a step or two from here. I gave you our address, and you promised to come to see us; but you have forgotten your neighbors of the attic.”
“I plead guilty; the change that has taken place in my situation is my excuse.”
“If you want us to forgive you altogether, you must come up and bid my wife good-morning. I say my wife, although we are not married. But for the benefit of concierges and strangers I feel bound to call her my wife; that is a sacrifice to the proprieties. After all, what difference is there between us and married people? Simply a signature on a great book! And that signature, and the oath, and all the promises made before men, do not make people behave any better.”
“I am entirely of your opinion.”
“At all events, we are very happy; we love each other as dearly as ever, and we snap our fingers at evil tongues.”
“You are quite right, my dear Ernest, one should live for oneself and not for other people.”
“Now that I am prosperous, I don’t care what my parents say; I owe nothing to anybody and I am as happy as a king, I mean, happier than a king. But come on; Marguerite will be very glad to see you; we often speak of you.”
I followed Ernest; he led me into a very attractive house, and we went up three flights; he rang, and my former neighbor opened the door. She uttered a cry of surprise when she saw me.
“Ah! it is Monsieur Blémont! What a miracle!”
“Parbleu! if he has come, my dear love, it is simply because I met him and brought him by force; but for that, you wouldn’t have seen him yet.”
“Ah! how wicked it is to forget one’s good friends, one’s neighbors!”
“Mon Dieu! madame, you see—that——”
“Ha! ha! he is getting mixed up; he is ashamed of his wrongdoing,” said Ernest, laughingly; “we must be generous and say nothing more to him about it.”
They ushered me into a bedroom which served as a salon; it was not magnificent, but there was everything that was necessary, and there was an atmosphere of order and of neatness which did much credit to the mistress of the house.
Madame Ernest, for I could call her by no other name, was a little stouter than of old; she was most attractive, and her eyes and all her features expressed a contentment, a happiness which added to her charm. They made me sit down, and we talked of the evenings we had passed together in the attic, long ago.
“Are you married to your Eugénie?” asked Madame Ernest.
“Yes, madame, thirteen months ago.”
“You must be very happy! for you were very much in love with her, and she loved you dearly too.”
“Yes, madame.”
“Have you any children?”
“What a foolish creature!” said Ernest; “do you suppose that they have had six or seven in thirteen months?”
“I mean a child.”
“Yes, I have had a little daughter for two months and a half.”
“Ah! you are luckier than we are. I should like so much to have a child; and since my miscarriage—But this time I have hopes.”
And the little woman glanced at Ernest with a smile; he smiled back at her, saying:
“Are such things mentioned before people?”
“Oh! never mind! What harm is there in hoping to be a mother?—Besides, Monsieur Blémont isn’t ‘people;’ he is our friend; he proved it that night that I was sick.—But come and see what pretty rooms we have.”
The little woman showed me over her apartments, which consisted of three rooms and a small dressing-room. She stopped in front of the fireplace in her bedroom and said:
“Do you see? We have a clock!”
“Hush, Marguerite!” said Ernest.
“No, no, I am going to speak. Ought I to pretend to be proud with Monsieur Henri, who knew me when I was so poor and unhappy? I am sure that it pleases him to see that we have all these things.”
“Indeed, you are quite right, madame; and you judge me aright in thinking that I am happy in your happiness.”
“I was right, you see. I also have a woman who comes in in the morning, to do the heavy work. Ernest insisted upon it, because he declares that I am not strong enough.”
“How interesting to monsieur to know that!”
“Yes, yes, it is interesting.—He is always scolding me, because he says that I am ignorant of the proprieties. Bless my soul! it isn’t my fault; it seems to me that one may well talk to her friends about what interests her; I am so happy!”
And Marguerite began to dance about the room; then she ran and threw her arms about Ernest’s neck and kissed him. She was as much a child as ever; but she was not yet eighteen. I prayed that she might retain that happy disposition for a long time to come.
The time passes quickly when one is in pleasant company. I suddenly discovered that it was long past five o’clock; and my wife would be expecting me to dinner, and I was to take her that evening to see a new play! I bade my young friends good-bye. I promised to go again to see them and I urged Ernest to come upstairs when he passed my house.
It rarely happened that I was not at home some time before the dinner hour; and that day we were to dine before five o’clock, in order to have plenty of time to go to the theatre. I found Eugénie at the window, anxious and impatient.
“Where on earth have you been? It is almost half-past five; you never come home so late.”
“My dear love, I met a friend,—one of my old friends.”
“Should a man’s friends cause him to forget his wife?”
“I didn’t think about the time.”
“And you didn’t think of me, who have been waiting for you and who did not know what to think.”
“Nonsense! come to dinner.”
“But tell me, where have you been?”
“I will tell you at the table.”
We sat down, and I told my wife the story of my acquaintance with Ernest and Marguerite. I was obliged to begin some way back, in order to explain to her how it happened that I went up to the attic room. Eugénie, who listened at first with interest, became thoughtful, and her brow darkened. I finished my story, and still she was silent for a long time. I ate my dinner, but she did not eat. She continued to keep silent, and it vexed me at last.
“Why don’t you eat?”
“Because I am not hungry.”
“And why are you sulky with me?”
“Sulky! I am not sulky.”
“You don’t say a word; is that the way we ordinarily act when we are together?”
“I am thinking about your former neighbor, about your friend’s mistress, whom you used to go to see in her room under the eaves.”
“I went to see her when Ernest was there.”
“Oh! you were always sure to find him, were you?”
“Yes, for I seldom went except in the evening, and Ernest was almost always there then.”
“Almost always!”
“Eugénie, I have told you the truth; you would do very wrong to believe anything else.”
“But you seem to be so infatuated with this little Marguerite. You say that she is so pretty.”
“In the first place, I did not say that she was pretty. But even if she were, that isn’t what I admired in her; it was her love, her deep affection for her lover.”
“Oh, yes! that was what led you up to the eaves!”
“Yes, it was. Why do you think ill of a person whom you do not know?”
“Oh! you did so many things when you were a bachelor! You had so many mistresses!”
“A very good reason why I did not need to turn to somebody’s else, who would not have listened to me if I had.”
“You may very well have known Mademoiselle Marguerite before she knew her Monsieur Ernest, as you were her neighbor.”
“If I had dreamed that you would imagine all this, I would not have mentioned Ernest or his wife.”
“His wife! She isn’t his wife.”
“It is practically the same thing, as they live together.”
“Such people are always very queer, and that woman would not be received in decent society.”
“Queer! What foolish prejudices! People in what is called good society won’t receive a woman who has lived a long time with the only man whom she ever loved; whose only care, whose only glory consists in making him happy; who goes out with no one but him, adorns herself for no one else, knows no pleasure without him; but they will welcome and make much of the woman who ruins her husband by extravagance, who does not even take the trouble to conceal her love-affairs, who goes about with no one but her cicisbeo. And all because those women are married, forsooth! Upon my word, it does great honor to society!”
“Mon Dieu! how you flare up, monsieur!”
“Because I cannot tolerate injustice, and because this particular injustice is often perpetrated in society. For my own part, I tell you that I shall always rise above such prejudices, and that I should be very glad to welcome Ernest and his wife at my house.”
“I thank you, monsieur, but I trust that you will not do so.”
“If you knew them, I am sure that you would not talk like this.”
“I have no desire to make their acquaintance; it is quite enough for you to be Mademoiselle Marguerite’s intimate friend.”
“Great heaven! how absurdly you talk, Eugénie!”
“And she used to live in this house?”
“To be sure.”
“I am no longer surprised that you are so attached to your apartment.”
I angrily threw down my knife and fork and rose from the table, saying:
“Let us talk no more about it, for you will end with making me angry too. Are you ready? It is time to go to the theatre.”
“I don’t want to go.”
“And this morning you were looking forward to it. What is the meaning of this new whim?”
“It isn’t a whim; I don’t care about going to the theatre; I don’t want to go out.”
“As you please. Then I will go without you.”
I took my hat and went out, closing the door rather violently. One absolutely must vent one’s ill humor on something.
I was really distressed. That was the first quarrel I had had with my wife. It pained me all the more because I knew that I was not in the wrong; and when a person feels that he deserves neither reproof nor blame, he is doubly incensed with those who reprove or blame him.
To think of my being insulted by Eugénie! A few months before I could not have believed that that could happen. To think of being hurt and grieved by her! But it was jealousy that led her astray, that excited her. I tried to find excuses for her. We always try to find excuses for those whom we love; we should be so unhappy if we could not excuse them.
I found but little enjoyment at the theatre; there were times however, when, engrossed by the play, which was very pretty, I abandoned myself to the pleasure it afforded me; but the memory of my quarrel with my wife soon returned to my mind; it was as if a weight had resumed its place upon my chest; it embarrassed me and prevented me from enjoying myself. What a child I was! after all, it was a most trivial dispute; I was foolish to think that a husband and wife could always agree. Yet I did think so; I believed it. That quarrel, trivial though it was, caused me much distress, because it was the first, and because it destroyed one of my illusions.
My wife was in bed when I went home. The next day we did not mention our dispute of the day before. We were not on bad terms, and yet everything was not right between us. Eugénie was colder and less talkative than usual; there was none of the delightful unreserve of former days. But I could not ask her pardon when I had done nothing. Let madame sulk, if that amuses her, I thought; I will seem not to notice it.
A fortnight passed thus, during which I went once to Ernest’s; but I was careful not to tell my wife; one must needs have secrets from people who see evil in everything.
One morning, Eugénie said to me:
“We must see about finding a new apartment.”
“A new apartment? what for, pray?”
“Why, to move into, naturally.”
“Do you mean that you want to leave this apartment, which you like so much?”
“Oh! I can’t endure it now! and if I had known all that I know now, we certainly would have taken another when we were married.”
“Known all that you know? Are you going to begin again?”
“You can’t deny that this was the place where you knew Mademoiselle Marguerite; everybody in the house knows it, and you cannot certainly think it is pleasant for me to live here.”
“Everybody in the house knows that I used to talk to my neighbor; and everybody also knows that I was not her lover.”
“Oh! that isn’t what people say—even the concierges.”
“What, Eugénie! do you talk with the concierges?”
“No, not I; but our maid talks with them sometimes; that is natural enough. And I know, monsieur, that Mademoiselle Marguerite was not content to receive visits from you; she used to come to your room.”
“That is false, madame.”
“You won’t admit it, of course not. You could not say that she used to come here with her lover.”
“Oh, yes! I do remember now that she came once to my room, just once, one morning, to ask me if I had seen her cat which she had lost.”
“Her cat! ha! ha! a charming excuse! That virtuous young woman goes to a bachelor’s room to look for her cat!”
“I swear to you that that is the truth!”
“And another time she came to ask about her dog, I suppose?”
I made no reply, for I felt that I should lose my temper, and in such a case it is wiser to hold one’s tongue. Eugénie saw perhaps that she had gone too far, for after a moment she said to me gently:
“We shall have to move anyway when our daughter returns from her nurse’s; this apartment will be too small then. Why should we wait?”
“This apartment suits me, madame, and I propose to remain here.”
I was not in the habit of resisting my wife; but her suspicions concerning my friendship with Madame Ernest made me angry, and it annoyed me to think of leaving my apartment.
Eugénie did not insist; for several days we were on cool terms, and the question of apartments was not mentioned. I saw plainly enough that my wife longed to speak of it, but she dared not. At last I reflected that, after all, the neighbors and concierges and gossips might well have made remarks; such people care for nothing except slandering their neighbors. They had seen me go up to the young woman’s room and they might have thought that Ernest was not there.
Why should I force my wife to listen forever to the insinuations of those people? The apartment was distasteful to her. Besides, one must needs do something in order to have peace. Peace! ah, yes! I was beginning to realize that peace is a precious thing, which does not always dwell in families.
“If you will dress at once,” I said to Eugénie one morning, “we will go together to look at apartments.”
At that she threw herself into my arms and kissed me affectionately; she had recovered all her sunny humor of earlier days. To make the ladies amiable, all that is necessary is to do everything that they want.