At seven in the morning I heard my wife shifting restlessly and
moaning in her bedroom. I had not had a moment's sleep during the
night. My eyes closed occasionally from weariness, but sleep did not
come to me; nor did I woo it, for I felt the necessity of keeping
awake, lest Barbara should create a disturbance. Her condition was a
new and bitter experience to me, and I did not know what form it might
take. In whatever form it presented itself I must be prepared to cope
with it; and it behoved me, therefore, to keep on the watch.
I paid no attention to Barbara's moans, but went to my dressing-room
and bathed my face with cold water which refreshed and strengthened
me. In the front courtyard the birds were singing and the fountain was
playing. I threw the window open; the air was sweet and fresh, and I
was grateful for the relief it afforded me.
My wife continued to groan and toss about, and still I did not go to
her. At length she called my name in a fretful voice.
"Well?" I said, standing by the bedside.
"Why did you not come to me before?" she asked, querulously. "Did you
not hear me?"
"Yes, I heard you."
"And you kept away! How could you, love, how could you, when I am
suffering so?" She paused for a sympathetic word from me, which she
did not receive. "I am so ill, dear John, so very, very ill! My head
is on fire. Give me your hand."
I made no responsive movement, and she looked at me from beneath her
half-closed lids.
"You are not looking well yourself, John. Have you had a bad night?"
"A most horrible night."
"I am so sorry, dear. Watching by my side for so many hours has tired
you."
"I have not been watching by your side."
"You bad boy--what could you have been doing; and why do you speak to
me so unfeelingly? I am sure I have done nothing to deserve it. Oh, my
poor head! You did not know I was accustomed to these headaches."
"No, I did not know."
"I ought to have told you, dear."
"Yes, you ought to have told me. It would have been better for both of
us."
"I don't see that; unless you have deceived me, it could have made no
difference in your feelings, and I believed every word you said--yes,
I did, John, dear." She shuddered and moaned, as though seized with an
ague. "Get me something, or I shall go mad with pain!"
"What will you have? A cup of tea?"
An expression of disgust spread over her features. "Tea! It is the
worst thing I could take. You do not understand--of course you do not
understand. Put your arm round me, dear; let me lean my head on your
shoulder; it will relieve me." I did not stir. "What do you mean by
treating me so cruelly? I am your wife, and you promised to love and
cherish me. Have you forgotten so soon, so soon?" I did not reply, and
her voice grew more imploring. "When women suffer as I do, John, they
need something to keep up their strength. Oh, this frightful sinking!
I am sure a little brandy would do me good. Don't be shocked; I
wouldn't ask for it if I wasn't certain it would remove this horrible
pain."
"Otherwise," I said, with sad and bitter emphasis, "you would not
touch it, you have such abhorrence of it."
"Why, of course I have. I take it only as a medicine." I picked up the
empty brandy bottle, and placed it on the dressing table. "Oh, that,"
she exclaimed. "It was filled with lemonade, and I drank it every
drop while you were away last night. What kept you so long? Oh, my
head is racked! I hope no pretty Frenchwoman----"
"Be silent!" I cried, sternly. "Of what use is this subterfuge? You
cannot deceive me."
"I never tried to r I would not be so wicked. It is cruel of you to
pick a quarrel with me the moment we are married. People wouldn't
believe it if they were told. For God's sake, get me a little brandy!"
"From me, Barbara, not one drop!"
"You won't?"
"No, I will not."
"Brute! Leave my room!"
I was glad to obey her, feeling how idle it was to pursue the
conversation. The moment I was gone I heard her scramble from the bed
and lock the door. Then I heard the sound of things being violently
tossed about, and presently the door was unlocked, and she stood
before me with a flaming face.
"You are a thief!" she screamed. "You are a sneak and a spy----"
"Hush, Barbara! The people in the hotel will hear you."
"Let them hear! What do I care? You are my husband, and you are a
thief. How dare you rob me? How dare you sneak, and pry, and search my
boxes, while I am asleep? You'll be picking my pocket, next, I
suppose. But I'll show you that a married woman has rights. You men
can't grind poor weak women into the dust any longer. I'll show you!"
She rang the bell violently.
"The servants must not see you in that state, Barbara," I said, with
my back against the door.
"They shall see me in any state I please, and I will let them know--I
will let all the world know--that we have been married hardly a day,
and that this is the way you are treating me. I give you fair warning.
If you don't get me the brandy I will scream the house down!"
What could I do? A waiter rapped at the door, and asked what monsieur
required. I gave him the order, and when the brandy was brought I took
it from him without allowing him to enter. Before I had time to turn
round Barbara snatched the decanter from my hand, and ran with it into
the bedroom. In a few minutes she returned, looking, to my
astonishment, bright and well.
"See what good it has done me," she said, in a blithe tone. "When I am
suffering nothing has such an effect upon me as a small glass of
brandy. It pulls me together in a moment almost. The doctor ordered it
especially for me, and when I can't get it at once I feel as if I
should go mad. I don't know what I say or do, so I am not accountable,
you know. Ask the doctor. I'll let you into my secret, my dear.' All
women take it, from the highest to the lowest. Fact, upon my word. You
are a goose. Now, we will not quarrel any more, will we? Kiss me, and
make it up."
I kissed her to keep her quiet, and, indeed, I felt that I was
helpless in the hands of this brazen and cunning woman.
"Barbara," I said, "you have caused me the greatest grief I have ever
experienced."
"I am so sorry, so very, very sorry!" she murmured. "Can I say more
than that?"
"You can, Barbara. You can promise me never to drink spirits again."
"Do you think I ever intend to?" she asked, in a tone of astonishment.
"I don't know."
"Now listen to me, love," she said, with an ingenuous smile. "I will
never touch another drop as long as I live."
"Do you mean that truly?"
"Truly, truly, truly! I was so ill, and so unhappy at being left
alone! I can't bear you out of my sight, John, dear, and if you won't
take advantage of it I don't mind confessing I am a wee bit jealous.
We will not talk of it any more, will we?"
"It is a solemn promise you have given me."
"A solemn, solemn promise, love. If you have any doubts of me I will
go down on my knees and swear it."
"I take your word, Barbara."
While Barbara was dressing the manager of the hotel waited upon me,
and to my surprise handed me my account. As I had not been in the
house twenty-four hours I inquired if it was usual for his visitors to
pay from day to day. No, he replied blandly it was not usual. Then why
call upon me so soon for payment? Did he mistrust me? He was shocked
at the suggestion. Mistrust an English gentleman? Certainly not--no,
no. This with perfect politeness and much deprecatory waving of his
hands.
"But you expect a settlement of this account," I said, irritated by
his manner.
"If monsieur pleases. And if monsieur will be so obliging as to seek
another hotel in which he will be more comfortable, more at his
ease----"
"I understand," I said. "You turn me out. Why?"
"If monsieur will be pleased to listen. The servants were not used to
the ways of monsieur and madame; and there had been complaints from
visitors. The sick gentleman in the next apartment----"
"Enough," I said, impatiently. "I leave your hotel within the hour,
and I will never set foot in it again."
He was grieved, devastated, but if monsieur had so resolved----
These uncompleted sentences were very significant, and afforded a
sufficiently clear explanation of the proceeding. With suppressed
anger I ran my eye down the account, and pointed to an item of five
francs for brandy.
"Supplied this morning," he explained, "to monsieur's order. Five
francs--yes, monsieur would find it quite correct."
"I required only a small glass," I said. "It is an imposition."
He trusted not; such an accusation had never been brought against him.
Would monsieur be kind enough to produce the decanter? A proper
deduction would be made if only one small glass had been taken.
"Produce the decanter! Certainly I will."
I called to Barbara to give me the decanter, and, her white arm bared
to the shoulder, she handed it out to me. It was empty. I blushed from
shame.
"Does monsieur find the account correct?"
"It is correct. Here is your money."
He receipted the bill and departed with polite bows and more
deprecatory waving of his hands. As I sat with my closed eyes covered
by my hand, Barbara touched my shoulder. I looked up into her smiling
face.
"Have I made myself beautiful, dear?"
Most assuredly she would have been so in other men's eyes, for she was
eminently attractive, but she was not in mine. Her beautiful outside
served only to accentuate what was corrupt within.
"Why do you not answer? Are you not proud of your wife?"
Proud of her? Great God! Proud of a woman who had brought this shame
upon me, and who, but an hour ago, was as degraded a spectacle as
imagination could compass.
"Don't get sulky again," she said, and as I still did not speak, she
asked vehemently, "What is the matter now?"
"Simply that we are turned out of the hotel," I replied.
"Is that all? The insolent ruffians! It is a thousand pities we ever
came here. But why get sulky over it? Paris is crammed with hotels,
and they will only be too glad to take our money."
"It is not that, Barbara. I wish to know if you drank all the brandy
in the decanter."
"All? It wasn't more than a thimbleful. And see what good it did me."
"Did you finish it before you promised never to touch spirits again?"
"What a tragedy voice, and what a tragedy face! Of course I did. Do
you think I would be so dishonorable as to break a promise I gave
you--you, of all, men? That isn't showing much confidence in me."
"You will keep that promise faithfully, Barbara?"
"I should be ashamed to look you in the face if I did not mean to keep
it faithfully. You will never find me doing anything underhanded or
behind your back, John."
I rallied at this. My happiness was lost, but there was a hope that
our shame would not be revealed to the world. As for what had occurred
in this hotel, once we were gone it would soon be forgotten. The
swiftly turning kaleidoscope of life in Paris is too absorbing in its
changes to allow the inhabitants to dwell long upon one picture,
especially on a picture the principle figures in which were persons so
insignificant as ourselves.
"Not a sou," cried Barbara, snapping her fingers in the faces of the
servants who swarmed about us when we were seated in the carriage;
"not one sou, you greedy beggars!" We drove out of the courtyard, and
Barbara, turning to me, said in her sweetest tone, "I hope you will be
very good to me, John, for you see how weak I am. Oh, what I have gone
through since you put the wedding ring on my finger! The dear wedding
ring!" She put it to her lips and then to mine. "I do nothing but kiss
it when I am alone. It means so much to both of us--love,
faithfulness, truth, trust in one another. All our troubles are over
now, are they not, love? And we are really commencing our honeymoon."