We hired an apartment on Boulevard Montmartre; it was rather expensive,
but very attractive. We could not take possession for three months.
Meanwhile, my wife was in a most delightful mood, save for the petty
discussions which occur between the most closely attached couples; for
after all, we are not perfect. My Eugénie was as she used to be in the
earlier days of our married life; she never mentioned Ernest or
Marguerite, and I did not tell her that I went sometimes to see them.
One lovely winter morning we determined to go to see our daughter. We
could not bear to wait until spring to embrace our little Henriette. No
sooner had we formed the plan than I went out to hire a cabriolet for
the whole day. I provided a cold chicken, a pie and a bottle of
bordeaux; things which are difficult to procure at a nurse’s house, but
which are never out of place anywhere. Eugénie wore a large bonnet which
protected her from the wind, and a large, thick cloak; I wrapped myself
in my own cloak, simply leaving my hands free to drive; and we started
for Livry.
It was a beautiful drive, the air was sharp, but the sun shone brightly.
And we had, what was better still, love and good spirits for travelling
companions; so that we made the journey merrily enough. When my hands
were too cold, Eugénie took the reins and drove for me.
We sang and laughed and ate in our cabriolet; we were our own masters;
there were only we two; no tiresome coachman behind to grumble if we
went too fast or if we whipped the horse, or to sneer as he counted the
kisses we exchanged. It is so pleasant for people who love each other to
be alone!
We drove along the outskirts of the famous forest of Bondy, which is
much less famous to-day, because there are fewer thieves in the forest
and more in the salons. In due time we reached Livry, a village where
there are almost no cottages, a town where there are few houses. We
found our nurse’s house, and made a triumphal entry into a yard full of
manure, mud and pools of water; what the peasants call piqueux. My wife
had already alighted from the carriage; she had spied the nurse with a
little one in her arms; and she ran to her, and seized the child,
crying:
“This is my daughter! I know her!”
For my part, I confess that I should never have known her. When my
daughter left us, she was three days old; and I consider that at that
age all children resemble each other. She was now four months; one could
begin to distinguish something; but I should never have been able to
tell whether she was my daughter, or the nurse’s child, who was three
months older; mothers never make a mistake.
Eugénie examined her daughter admiringly and insisted that she looked
like me already. With the best will in the world, I could detect no
resemblance; and although I felt that I should love my daughter dearly,
frankly, I could as yet see nothing adorable about her.
What I admired was the corpulence and robust health of our nurse. That
woman surely had strength enough to nurse four children at once; and as
I contemplated her fat cheeks and her broad chest, I said, like Diderot:
“One could kiss her for six weeks without kissing her twice in the same
place.”
I had done well to bring eatables, for we found nothing there but eggs,
milk and pork; rustic delicacies, but not succulent. I ate with the
peasants, while my wife held her daughter and crooned over her. Eugénie
said that I was a glutton, that I preferred the pie to my daughter. I
was very fond of both. I admit that I was unable to arouse any
enthusiasm for a little creature who could not speak and could not do
anything but make faces; but my heart told me that I should be none the
less a good father, for all that. Exaggeration leads one wide of the
truth, and enthusiasm does not demonstrate real feeling.
We went to walk about the neighborhood. We did not admire the verdure,
because it was freezing weather; but we discovered some lovely spots and
views, which must have been delightful in summer; and some fields too,
where it must have been very pleasant to roll about when the grass had
grown.
We returned and sat down in front of a snapping fire; one can warm
oneself so luxuriantly in front of the huge fireplaces that we find in
the country; they are the only things that our excellent ancestors had
which I regret.
We ate again, for we always return to that at last, and always with
pleasure; then we embraced the child, the nurse, everybody, and returned
to the cabriolet. It was almost five o’clock, and in winter darkness
comes on early.
At night, the cold seemed more intense. Eugénie and I sat close
together. My cloak, which was very large, was wrapped around us both; we
tried in every way to keep warm. Eugénie sat on my knee and drove; I
made no objection; it was almost dark. Suddenly the horse stopped, and
Eugénie and I concluded that we were off the road. I had only a very
vague idea where we were; but the horse, finding that he was no longer
guided by the reins, had turned aside, and was standing across the road,
facing the ditch.
We laughed over our plight and our distraction, which might have landed
us in the ditch. But luckily our horse was not in love. I took the reins
again, I steered the carriage into the right road, and we returned to
Paris, thinking that it had been a very short day, and fully determined
to go to see the nurse again.
A few days after this visit to Livry, on returning home, I found Ernest
in the salon talking with my wife. I had often urged him to come to see
me, and he had never done so before. I was greatly surprised to find
that my Eugénie was making herself very agreeable; I feared that she
would treat him coldly at least. But I soon understood why she had not
laid aside her usual gracious manner: Ernest had given his family name
only, and I had not mentioned that to my wife.
“Here is one of your friends, Monsieur Firmin, who has been waiting for
you a long while,” said Eugénie when I appeared. “I have never had the
pleasure of seeing monsieur before. I think that he was not at our
wedding.”
“That is true,” I said, taking his hand. “I confess that--that I forgot
him. On that day a man is permitted to have a poor memory.”
I was a little embarrassed. I dared not ask Ernest about his wife, for I
was certain that Eugénie did not know that her visitor was the lover of
my former neighbor. I began hastily to talk about the theatre and
literature; I led Ernest to his favorite ground, and he told me all the
news of the wings. But suddenly he exclaimed:
“I was very sorry not to be at home when you called the day before
yesterday. My wife told me that you waited for me a long while.”
“Is monsieur married?” Eugénie instantly inquired.
Ernest replied by simply bowing. Then he continued:
“I was all the more vexed, because I had a box at the Vaudeville to give
you, which perhaps would have entertained madame.”
Eugénie bowed, and I tried to lead the conversation back to the theatre;
but Ernest, having no suspicion of my apprehension, soon said to me:
“Marguerite, who used to be so fond of the theatre, is beginning to tire
of it; I take her so often!”
At the name of Marguerite, my wife turned pale; then she said to me with
a forced smile:
“Can it be that monsieur is Monsieur Ernest?”
“Yes, this is Monsieur Ernest Firmin, whom I have mentioned to you many
times.”
“Ah yes! I know, and whose _wife_ used to live in this house.”
Ernest bowed again. I held my peace, but I felt that I was blushing, for
Eugénie had said the word _wife_ in a tone of irony which hurt me. There
was malice in it, and I could not understand how she could make
malicious remarks to a person who had never injured her.
Luckily Ernest, I thought, did not detect my wife’s meaning. He
continued to talk of literature and theatres. Eugénie did not say
another word, and her manner was as cold as it had been affable when I
arrived. I carried on the conversation with Ernest. At last he rose and
said good-bye; and, as he took leave of my wife, he offered to send her
tickets sometimes if it would afford her pleasure. Eugénie replied that
she did not care for the theatre; but that reply was made in such a
contemptuous and discourteous tone that Ernest could not fail to be hurt
by it. However, he simply glanced at me, half smiled, pressed my hand
significantly and took his leave.
I expected a quarrel or scene of some sort; for I was beginning to
discover that when one is married, one must often expect something.
Eugénie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and
betook myself to my study. I passed the rest of the day without seeing
her.
But, at dinner time, annoyed that she did not leave her room, I decided
to go in search of her. I found her sitting in a chair and weeping
bitterly. I ran to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.
“What does all this mean, Eugénie? Why are you crying? What is it that
causes your sorrow?”
“You, monsieur.”
“I?”
“Ah! you make me very unhappy!”
“I make you unhappy? I must confess that I did not expect such a
reproach. When I try to gratify all your desires, all your tastes; when
I have no other will than yours, I make you unhappy! Upon my word, women
are most unjust! What would you say, pray, Eugénie, if you had a
scolding, capricious, dissipated, or gambling husband?”
“Mon Dieu! I am well aware, monsieur, that a husband thinks that he has
done his duty when he has given his wife the bonnet and shawl that she
wants; but for my part, I should prefer that you should have all the
faults that you just mentioned, if you would be faithful to me.”
“And you reproach me with being unfaithful! you address such a reproach
as that to me!”
“Do you dare to deny that you have been going to see your former
neighbor, this Madame Ernest?”
“No, madame, I have never denied it; why should I deny anything when I
have done nothing wrong?”
“Still, you have not told me of it, and but for that gentleman’s call, I
should not have known it.”
“I have not told you of it because your absurd suspicions obliged me to
keep it secret. I felt sure that you would discover something wrong in
it; so that it was useless for me to tell you a thing which can hardly
be said to concern you.”
“Ah! so it doesn’t concern me that you go to make love to other women!
What a horrible thing to say!”
“Eugénie, you are perfectly absurd! I feel very sorry for you!”
“When one discovers the intrigues of these gentlemen, one is absurd.
Will you say again that her lover is always there when you go there? It
is a pity that he himself said that you waited for him a long time.
Idiot! not to see why you go to his house when he isn’t there!”
“Oh! how patient a man must be, to listen to such nonsense!”
“I am sure that you go every day to see your old neighbor, this
Marguerite. I do not know her, but I detest her, I have a perfect horror
of her. Her Monsieur Ernest had better not think of bringing her here,
for I will turn her out of doors,--Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! after being
married only fifteen months, to have a mistress!”
She hid her face in her hands and began to sob again. Her tears made me
forgive her injustice. I was about to go to her and to try to make her
listen to reason, when she suddenly sprang to her feet, saying:
“Very well, monsieur, if you have a mistress, I warn you that I will
have a lover.”
I confess that those words produced an exceedingly disagreeable effect
on me; I was well aware that they were said in anger; but I would never
have believed that Eugénie could conceive such a thought.
“Madame,” I said, in a tone in which there was no trace of gentleness,
“do not drive me beyond bounds, or wear out my patience. I am willing to
tell you once more that I have no mistress, that Madame Ernest never was
and never will be my mistress, that I very rarely go to see them, and
that it is a mere chance that Ernest is not there when I go. Indeed, as
he is not a government clerk, it is impossible to be sure when he will
be absent. But now, madame, remember this: even if I had one or several
mistresses, if I neglected or totally abandoned my family, that would
give you no right at all to have a lover, A man’s position and his
wife’s are entirely different. I may have love-affairs, waste my
fortune, ruin my health; that will not dishonor you, madame, and will
not bring strange children into the bosom of your family. It is not the
same with the conduct of a wife; a single misstep ruins her in the eyes
of society, and may compel her husband’s children to share their bread
with her seducer’s children.”
“That is all very convenient, monsieur; it proves that you can do what
you please and that wives have simply to pass their lives weeping. Is
that fair, monsieur?”
“If you consider that too hard, too cruel, why do you women marry? You
should know what you undertake when you take that step.”
“You are right, it would be much better not to marry--to do like
Mademoiselle Marguerite; then one is free to follow one’s inclinations,
to drop people and take them up again at pleasure.”
I made no reply. I paced the floor back and forth. Meanwhile Eugénie had
ceased to weep and had wiped her eyes; a moment later she came to me and
laid her hand gently on my arm:
“Henri, perhaps I was a little wrong. But if this woman never has been,
and is not now your mistress, if you do not love her--swear to me that
you do not love her.”
“Yes, I swear to you that I do not love her, and that I have never been
her lover.”
“Well then, my dear, to prove that, you must promise me that you will
never in your life put your foot inside their door again.”
“No, I am very sorry, but I will not promise that.”
“Why not, if you do not love the woman?”
“It is just because I have no relations with Madame Ernest that I
propose to continue to see her and her husband just when it suits me.
Besides, listen, my dear love: to-day you are jealous of her and don’t
want me to go there any more; in a few days you will be jealous of
someone else, and you will forbid me to go somewhere else. Things cannot
go on so. I love you, I love you as dearly as on the day we married; but
I don’t propose to be your slave. There is nothing more ridiculous than
a man who does not dare to take a step without his wife’s permission;
there is nothing more impertinent for a woman than to say to her
husband: ‘You shall not go here or there, because I do not want you
to.’”
“But, Henri, I don’t forbid you to go, I simply beg you not to.”
“No, my dear Eugénie; I am distressed to refuse, but I shall go where I
please.”
“And you dare to say that you do not love that woman?”
“If I loved her you would never have known that I went there, you would
never have heard of her.”
“So you prefer the friendship of those people to my repose and
happiness? You sacrifice my peace of mind to them?”
“Your peace of mind should not be disturbed by my visits to Ernest. I
say again, I will not give way to absurd suspicions, and I will do as I
please.”
“Very good, monsieur; I appreciate your love at its real value now.”
And madame returned to her room; I sat down at the table and ate my
dinner. Eugénie did not return; I dined alone. It was the first time
since our marriage; alas, I would never have believed that it could
happen.
My dinner was soon at an end; nothing takes away the appetite like a
dispute. And to dispute with a person whom one loves makes one angry and
grieved at the same time.
I went out immediately after dinner. I walked aimlessly, but I walked on
and on; nothing is so good as the fresh air to calm ill humor. But it
was cold; and I finally went into the Variétés. That is a theatre where
there is usually something to laugh at, and it is so pleasant to laugh!
I took a seat in the orchestra. I spied Bélan there, no longer becurled
and in a tight-fitting coat, as he always used to be before his
marriage, but clad in a full-skirted frock coat, buttoned to the chin,
and with a solemn face which in no wise resembled that of a man who was
in search of conquests.
Was that the effect of marriage? Could it be that I myself had undergone
the same metamorphosis?
I was glad to meet Bélan; I hoped that the meeting would divert my
thoughts from my own troubles. I took a seat beside him. The
ex-lady-killer was so absorbed in his own reflections that he did not
recognize me.
“Well, Bélan, are you enjoying the play?”
“Hallo! it’s my old friend Blémont! What a lucky meeting! Since we have
been married, we hardly see each other at all. Ah! we had lots of fun
together in the old days, when we were bachelors! those were the good
old times!”
“What! do you repent already of being married?”
“No, certainly not; I only said that in jest. Oh! I am very happy; but
what I mean is that a married man owes it to himself not to run wild
like a bachelor. However, I am exceedingly happy.”
“I congratulate you. How does it happen that madame is not with you?”
“Oh! she is dining out with her mother, at a house where they couldn’t
invite me, because I would have made thirteen at the table. I am going
to call for her. But as it is a house where they dine very late, Armide
told me not to hurry, not to come until between ten and eleven. That is
why I came here to pass the time. But how is it with you, my dear
Blémont? I thought that you never left your adored wife; everybody
speaks of you as a pair of turtledoves.”
“Oh! turtledoves don’t always agree. We have had a little quarrel and I
came to the theatre for distraction.”
“The deuce! really? you have had a quarrel? Well, that’s like me. I
often have quarrels with Armide, but that doesn’t prevent me from being
happy. They are little clouds which soon pass away.”
“And does your mother-in-law still weep all the time?”
“Oh! don’t speak of my mother-in-law! I admit that she is my nightmare;
it is she who stirs up her daughter. I know well enough that she doesn’t
do it from any bad motive; she is too noble for that. But when one
doesn’t come up to the mark in a salutation or in any sort of ceremony,
when one does not offer his hand quickly enough, why there is no end to
the reproaches and complaints. However, I am very happy; although those
devilish Girauds have already tried to make people think that I am a
cuckold.”
“What! the Girauds have said----”
“That I am a cuckold. Yes, my friend, they have said that! Whereas, she
is a woman of the most rigid principle; and moreover, a woman with whom
a man can be perfectly at ease. One of those cold, marble women, you
know. When you kiss them, it is exactly as if you didn’t kiss them; it
produces the same effect.”
“The deuce! that is very comforting!”
“Oh, I promise you that when I am a cuckold, I shall make no objection
to its being advertised. But I know why the Girauds say that: it’s from
spite because they weren’t at my wedding.”
“I agree with you. But still, I cannot believe that they have ventured
to say----”
“Yes, they have. But let me tell you what pretext they have invented for
making such remarks. I told you that, before obtaining Armide’s hand, I
thrust aside a lot of rivals, among others a marquis who had six
decorations.”
“Yes.”
“Well, instead of taking offence, like the others, because I triumphed
over him, the marquis came to me and complimented me frankly, and said
with charming affability: ‘You have beaten me, and it is quite right;
you are a better man than I; I appreciate you and do you justice. Marry
Mademoiselle de Beausire, and allow me to continue to be your
friend.’--What do you say to that, eh?”
“That was very obliging.”
“As you can imagine, I was touched by that proceeding. I urged the
marquis to come to see us, and he did so; in fact, he comes very often.
That is the basis for the slanders of the Girauds. When my wife heard of
that, being very strict in such matters, she insisted at once that I
should ask the marquis to cease his visits; but I showed my strength of
character; I said to the marquis: ‘you come every day, try to come twice
a day, and I shall be better pleased than ever.’ He does it. And in this
respect, at least, my mother-in-law considers that I did well.”
I made no reply, but I laughed to myself. What selfish creatures we are!
we laugh at the misfortunes of others and we desire to be pitied for our
own misfortunes. At a quarter-past ten, although there was another play
to be performed, Bélan went away to call for his wife. He was afraid
that if he stayed any longer, he should be late and be scolded by his
mother-in-law, which however did not prevent him, when he bade me
good-night, from saying again that he was very happy.