My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It
is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother
found Eugénie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she
was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions
of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom
had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the
best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I passed three-quarters
of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugénie. If the ladies went
out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many
young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as
they glanced at Eugénie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor
fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.
It was decided that I should retain the apartment which I occupied. It
was large enough for my wife, and I had it decorated carefully in
accordance with her taste. It would not have been large enough if Madame
Dumeillan had come to live with us, as I expected at first. Eugénie too
hoped that she would not leave her; but Madame Dumeillan said to her
affectionately but firmly:
“No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes
to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me;
that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my
children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to
each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is
sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial
disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may
prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the
outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I
will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever
you want me, you will always be able to find me.”
Eugénie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I
considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.
Should we have a wedding party? That was a question which I asked
myself, and which I was tempted more than once to put to Eugénie. But a
little reflection convinced me that I should be wrong not to celebrate
my marriage. To please me, Eugénie would pretend that she did not care
about a ball; but at twenty years of age, possessed of innumerable
charms, endowed with all the graces which attract and subjugate, is it
not natural for a woman to long to show herself in all the glory of her
happiness? Is that not a marked day in her life when she is called
madame for the first time, although she has not absolutely ceased to be
a maiden; when she has not as yet the assurance of the former, but on
the contrary has all the shrinking modesty of the other in an
intensified form? Yes, at the age of love and enjoyment, it is essential
to have a wedding party; doubly so, when one marries the object of
one’s passion; for happiness is always an embellishment. My Eugénie
needed no embellishment; but why should I not have a little vanity? Why
should I not be proud of my triumph?
So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a
grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball
at Lointier’s. I determined to look to it that my Eugénie should have
magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be
more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those
triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman’s life. I gave her leave to be a
coquette on that day.
The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the
list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough
however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should
not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were
invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We
simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine
gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom
nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present
themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent
exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at écarté.
We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan,
and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and
her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would
rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and
her mother with a smile, I said to them:
“Shall we put down their names too?”
“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking
of the Giraud family.”
“Exactly.”
“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and
their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”
“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they
made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their
house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them
so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”
“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”
So Giraud’s name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day
arrived. I rose at six o’clock in the morning, having slept hardly at
all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o’clock, when
I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugénie? To read was
impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of
her--ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my
thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was
still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she
would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four
years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor
life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure.
I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to
breakfast or to pass the day with me, how impatiently I counted the
minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune
visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many
kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all
those things were so soon forgotten!--Ah! I was very happy in those days
too!
But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not
burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed
reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to
burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?
I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed
with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either
because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply
because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the
fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them,
I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an
episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid
such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I
was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last
farewell to bachelorhood.
I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours
were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more
will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.
Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to
pass the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet:
the happier one is, the more disposed is one’s mind to melancholy
thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does
not feel such impressions.
But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing
but Eugénie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had
not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting
miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those
portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of
them.
Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because
of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why
destroy them? In the first place, Eugénie would never see them; and even
if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from
life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those
ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk,
whence I thought that they would never come forth.
Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was
left which could possibly offend Eugénie’s eye. No, she could come there
now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those
rooms than such as she should choose to receive.
It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I
were at my mother’s a little before the hour. If only the carriages did
not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge
and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it
in my buttonhole?
The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to
speak, but his wife did not give him time.
“Monsieur,” she said, “this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be
able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this
bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your
happiness, which will last forever.”
While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip
in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them
some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if
one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage
arrived. I went downstairs and passed rapidly before a long line of
cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were
stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be
married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day.