“Madame, you know very well that I am not in the habit of carving.”
“You may do as you choose, monsieur.”
“Do you refuse to carve it, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur.”
“Will you do it--once, twice?”
“No, monsieur.”
“In that case, as it is foolish to make the landlord a present of
it----”
I took up the dish and threw the chicken out of the window. My wife
involuntarily gave a little shriek. I walked to the window, for I
noticed that the violin had stopped. I saw that the little Savoyard had
just picked up the chicken, and fearing doubtless that someone would
come out to get it, he hastily threw his violin over his shoulder,
concealed the bird under his jacket, and ran across the Champs-Elysées
as if the devil were at his heels.
At that sight I was unable to keep a sober face; I burst into a roar of
laughter, which increased in volume when I saw that the little violinist
ran faster than ever on seeing me at the window. Madame was unable to
resist the desire to see what had become of the chicken. She saw the
little fellow’s performance, and bit her lips to avoid laughing; but
when I turned toward her, she could hold out no longer; she followed my
example.
Nothing restores concord so quickly as laughter; disputes rarely take
place between laughter-loving people. We had drawn near to each other,
having both left the table to go to the window. I do not know how it
happened, but I soon found Eugénie in my arms; then we kissed, we walked
away from the window, and----
Once more the door was opened, this time without rattling the knob. That
waiter was fated to do everything awkwardly; he never guessed right!
Eugénie, red as a cherry, hastily moved away from me, but not so quickly
that the waiter, who had seen us close together, did not instantly
disappear with the macaroni, muttering:
“Beg pardon! you are not ready. Besides, I don’t think the cheese is
cooked enough.”
He closed the door. I ran after Eugénie, who murmured:
“Mon Dieu! what will that waiter think?”
I confess that that question worried me very little, and in a few
minutes I think that Eugénie forgot it too.
I had to ring to get the macaroni. The waiter came at last; but he
hummed and talked to himself upon the landing before touching the knob;
then he fumbled over it for five minutes. All the time that he was in
the room, my wife kept her eyes down and dared not move or speak. She
was not used to such occasions.
I ordered the dessert and the champagne. We ended our dinner much more
gaily than the beginning of it would have led one to think. I swore to
Eugénie twenty times over that I had ceased to see Lucile long before I
had married her. She recovered her amiability; she took nothing but
biscuit and champagne, but she declared that it was very pleasant to
dine in a private room, and I promised her that we would do it again.
The day following that festivity was our moving day. Eugénie and her
maid went early to install themselves in our new apartment, where she
wished to have the furniture arranged at the outset according to her own
taste. I remained at our old apartment to look after the packing and
loading; indeed, I was not sorry to remain as long as possible in my
former bachelor’s quarters.
The people who were hired to move us had promised that everything should
be done at four o’clock; at seven I was still there. Finally, the last
load drove away, and I was at liberty to do likewise. I walked once more
through those bare rooms, which to me were so rich in memories. It was
there that I had entertained so many pretty faces. It was there too
that I had brought Eugénie as a bride, and that she had made me a
father. What a pity to leave a home where we had been so happy! Should I
be as happy elsewhere? But it was time to have done with such childish
thoughts. One is certain to be happy anywhere with the object of one’s
affections; my wife was probably impatient at my non-arrival, so I
started.
I reached our new home on Boulevard Montmartre, and the maid admitted
me. The last furniture had been brought, but nothing was in place;
whereas I expected to find the apartment all arranged and all in order.
What on earth had they been doing ever since morning! I asked the maid,
who seemed distressed.
“Dear me, monsieur,” she replied, “I did not know where to put all these
things.”
“What! hasn’t my wife been here with you all day?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame has been here. At first she worked hard arranging
things; but after a little, as she was moving a piece of furniture----”
“She hurt herself?”
“Oh! no, monsieur; madame did not hurt herself; but she found something,
I don’t know what, that made her unhappy; she cried, and then she went
to her room, and she hasn’t touched anything since.”
The deuce! so there was something new! I wondered if I ever again should
enjoy two days of peace! But only the day before we had been reconciled;
and that very morning she had shown no signs of discontent. What on
earth could have caused this new outbreak? Asking myself these
questions, I went to Eugénie’s bedroom. I found her sitting in a chair,
but her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be reflecting profoundly. On my
arrival, she did not stir.
“What are you doing here, my dear love? It is impossible to find one’s
way about here, and the maid says that you will not give any orders;
what does it mean?”
“It means, monsieur, that you may arrange everything to suit yourself;
for my part I will not lift a finger.”
“Monsieur! Well, well, so something else has gone wrong. Upon my word,
this happens too often. Tell me, what is the matter to-day?”
“Oh! I ought not to be surprised; I ought to be prepared for everything
with you. But there are things which I shall never be able to take
coolly; and when a woman finds that she is deceived so shamefully----”
“Deceived! come, come! explain yourself, madame, I beg you. What fable
has somebody been telling you to-day?”
“No one has been telling me any fables, monsieur. This time I have
proofs, undeniable proofs. Do not think that I was looking for them;
they fell into my hands by the merest chance. When I was trying to put
your desk in place, something broke, the drawer opened and I saw--here,
monsieur, this is what I found.”
Eugénie opened a drawer and threw upon a table in front of me the eight
portraits of women, which I had kept in my desk.
I confess that at sight of them I was speechless for a few moments; but
I recovered myself at last.
“Why should the discovery of these portraits offend you? You know very
well that I amuse myself by painting a little. When I was a bachelor, I
made these miniatures. They are fancy faces, and I saw no harm in
keeping them.”
“Ah! they are fancy portraits, are they?” cried Eugénie; and she
trembled with anger, and her eyes gleamed. “Monster that you are! I
expected that reply. You forget that I saw one of the models yesterday!
Look, monsieur, is this a fancy portrait? Oh! the likeness is too good
for anyone to mistake it; it is a portrait of that woman who was with
you yesterday.”
She held out the portrait of Lucile. I had forgotten that it was among
those which I had kept; and as it happened, it was one of the best
likenesses. I did not know what to say; I was so vexed to appear like a
culprit when I had done no wrong, above all, I was so irritated by my
wife’s reproaches that I threw myself on a chair and said nothing more.
Eugénie pursued me, with Lucile’s portrait in her hand.
“You are confounded, monsieur! you cannot think of any more lies to
tell; it’s a pity, you tell them so well! So this is the woman with whom
you have had nothing to do for a long time, whom you don’t see now, and
whom you never loved! But you have her portrait, you treasure it
carefully, with those of seven other women whom you probably meet _by
accident_, as you met that creature yesterday! Eight mistresses at once!
I congratulate you, monsieur; you make a most virtuous and orderly
husband! And this is the man who swore when he married me that he would
never love any woman but me! that I alone would suffice to make him
happy! Very well, monsieur, have eight mistresses, have thirty, if you
choose, but I will not continue to live with a man who acts so. I no
longer love you; I feel that I hate you, that I cannot endure the sight
of you. I am going home to my mother. Then, monsieur, you will be free
to receive your neighbors and all the women whose portraits you paint.”
“Faith, madame, you will do as you choose. For my part, I confess that I
am beginning to be tired of your jealous disposition and of your
outbreaks, your scenes. This is not the life that I looked forward to
when I married. It has ceased to be that pleasant, happy life which was
ours at first; and yet, I love you as dearly as ever; I have not ceased
for one instant to love you. It is not my fault if you manufacture
chimeras, if you detect intrigues in the most innocent things. I have
nothing to reproach myself for. If I were guilty, it is probable that I
should have taken precautions, and should have found a way to conceal my
guilt; but I did nothing wrong in keeping portraits which were painted
before I knew you, and which recalled my bachelor studies. It is true
that one of them is a portrait of the woman that I met yesterday. In
fact, that was what she asked me for, and what I had just promised to
send her, when you appeared.”
“Not to send her, but to carry to her yourself. I remember perfectly
now. Oh! you can’t make me believe, monsieur, that that portrait was
painted long ago. It is that woman just as I saw her yesterday, while
she was shaking hands with you so lovingly. And the idea of your daring
to claim to be innocent, when I discover every day fresh proofs of your
faithlessness! But you shall not carry her her portrait,--neither hers,
nor any other. Look! this is what I do with them! Ah! I wish that I
could break the bonds that bind me to you in the same way!”
Eugénie threw the miniatures on the floor; she jumped upon them and
ground them to pieces under her feet; I had never seen her in such a
frenzy of rage. I said nothing; I kept my seat, and my placidity seemed
to intensify her wrath. At last, when she had reduced the ivories to
powder, she raised the sleeve of her dress, snatched the bracelet from
her arm, in which my portrait was set, and then threw it upon the floor
and trampled upon it, crying:
“I will not keep the portrait of a man whom I can no longer love!”
The sight of the destruction of the women’s portraits had caused me no
emotion; but when I saw Eugénie trample my image under her feet, my
image which she had sworn to keep as long as she lived, I felt a sharp
pang. A keen, poignant grief suddenly took possession of me. It seemed
to me that my happiness had been destroyed like that portrait. I
involuntarily started to stop Eugénie; but a feeling of just pride held
me back, and I allowed her to consummate the sacrifice.
After shattering my portrait, Eugénie dropped into a chair as if
exhausted by the transport of passion to which she had yielded. I
fancied even that I could detect in her eyes some feeling of shame for
what she had done. Thereupon I rose and gazed sadly at the shattered
fragments of my portrait; then, glancing at my wife, I left the room
without saying a word to her. I left the house. I have no idea where I
went. I had not dined, but it was my turn not to be hungry. I could
still see Eugénie trampling upon my portrait, and it seemed to me that
she could no longer love me, that her love and her fidelity were
attached to that image for which she no longer cared.
I realized that I must be a man rather than a lover, for love does not
last forever, but manliness sustains us throughout our whole life. While
reasoning thus with myself, I sighed profoundly, for I still adored
Eugénie; after all, jealousy is a proof of love, they say: my wife would
come to herself and I would forgive her. But the breaking of my
portrait, my work, which should have reminded her of the delicious
sittings, when she was beside me--Ah! that was very wicked! and I should
have difficulty in forgiving her for that.
I walked a long while; at last I found myself in my old street; I
believe that our legs have an instinct of their own, and that they lead
us toward the places which they have often traversed.
Suppose I should go to see Ernest and his wife, I thought, to divert my
mind from my troubles? They were my only friends, and would gladly share
my sorrows. However, I would not tell them of my woes, but I would
forget them in their company. So I betook myself to Rue du Temple.
The concierge told me that they were at home. I went up. Madame Ernest
admitted me and ushered me into her room, saying:
“By what miracle have you come in the evening, monsieur? It is seldom
enough that we see you even in the morning. Ernest is at the theatre,
but he promised to return early.”
The little woman gave me a seat and then resumed her work. We talked, or
rather she talked; she talked of Ernest, of his work, of his success, of
their mode of life. I enjoyed listening to her. While she was speaking,
I looked at her, and it seemed like one of the evenings which I used to
pass in her attic room. Marguerite was still the same, and in my
thoughts I loved to call her by that name still.
Suddenly she stopped and said to me:
“I am doing all the talking. I must be wearying you, am I not?”
“Oh, no!”
“But you don’t say anything.”
“I am listening to you.”
“Never mind, you are not usually silent like this. Are you unhappy?”
“Perhaps so.”
“A little falling out with your wife? I will wager that I have guessed
it!”
“That is true; we have had a little dispute.”
“And that makes you unhappy. Ah! you are like me; when I have a dispute
with Ernest, it makes me very sad! Luckily it seldom happens, and it
doesn’t last long. I should die if it did!”
And the little woman told me about some petty discussions between Ernest
and herself, the merest child’s play, which could not interrupt the
current of their love for an instant. I had been listening to my little
neighbor for an hour, without being bored for an instant; however, I was
anxious to know what was going on at home, so I rose.
“I won’t try to detain you,” said Madame Ernest; “your wife is waiting
for you, no doubt, and you mustn’t let her get impatient. Ernest will be
sorry to have missed you.”
I took leave of my former neighbor and left the house. As I stepped into
the street, a woman who was leaning against a post near the porte
cochère, seized my arm convulsively, and said:
“You have been alone with her for an hour and a half; her Ernest wasn’t
there. I know, for the concierge told me so.”
It was Eugénie. Eugénie, who had followed me, no doubt, and had seen me
go into that house, and had remained at the door all the time that I had
been with Marguerite.
I was so surprised, so thunderstruck, that I could not answer. After
saying these few words, my wife left me and ran swiftly before me. I
called her, I tried to overtake her, and succeeded at last. But she
would not answer me, she persisted in refusing to take my arm.
And thus we returned home. I tried to have an explanation with my wife,
but she locked herself into her bedroom and refused to admit me. A bed
was made for me in my study.
So I was obliged to pass the night alone, and separate like that after
the scenes of the evening! Ah! that was a very gloomy housewarming in
our new apartment.