After passing several weeks without speaking to each other, my wife and
I came together again and became reconciled; but it seemed to me that
the reconciliation was not very sincere, that it was simply a sort of
smoothing over. Had these frequent scenes diminished our love? No, I
still loved my wife; but when often repeated, disputes sour the temper
and change the disposition. The words that people say to each other in
passion, although forgotten afterward, deal a fatal blow to our
illusions, and they never grow again.
We went again to Livry, to our daughter’s nurse, on a superb day in
June. How little that excursion resembled the other! we had no dispute,
but the tranquillity which reigned between us was like that which
ordinarily follows twenty years of married life; and we returned home
without driving our horse to the edge of a ditch.
A very sad event marked the first months of our life in our new home:
Eugénie lost her mother. Dear Madame Dumeillan was taken from us after a
short illness, when we had every reason to hope that we might long
enjoy her presence and her affection. I felt the loss almost as keenly
as my wife, for Madame Dumeillan was our best friend. Careful not to
take part in our disputes, pretending not to notice them, Madame
Dumeillan, without blaming either of us, had the art of bringing us
together again, and of reviving the most affectionate sentiments in our
hearts. Whenever Eugénie had been to see her mother, I knew it at once,
because she was more amiable with me. Ah! how seldom do we see parents
who long for our happiness without trying to govern our conduct, our
actions; and without fatiguing us with their advice! The loss we had
sustained was irreparable; one does not meet twice in one’s life people
who love us for ourselves alone and who do not impose a thousand
obligations on us as the price of their affection.
Eugénie’s sorrow was very deep and very keen. To divert her, I took her
into society. We went to evening parties, to the theatre, to concerts;
we received company at our house more frequently. The commotion of
society does not altogether enable one to forget one’s loss, but it
gives one employment and distraction. There are sorrows with which one
loves to withdraw into oneself; there are others which compel us to shun
ourselves, and in which reflection is deadly.
We brought our daughter home. Her presence helped to divert my wife’s
thoughts from her grief. The sight of her Henriette, her caresses, her
first words, unintelligible to anybody but ourselves, enabled Eugénie at
last to endure the loss she had sustained. A woman is a daughter before
she is a mother, but she is a mother much longer than she has been a
daughter; and in our hearts affection does not look backward, it
inclines rather toward the later generation.
Madame Dumeillan’s death made my wife richer than I by four thousand
francs a year. I did not envy her her wealth, but I regretted that my
children should owe more to their mother than to me. That thought led me
to work much harder; I passed a large part of my time in my study and at
the Palais. We saw each other less frequently; was that the reason that
we agreed better? I hoped that that circumstance was not accountable for
it. I was always glad to return to Eugénie and I was very happy when I
held my daughter in my arms. My little Henriette was so pretty! she
seemed already very bright and intelligent to me, and I was disposed to
spoil her, to do whatever she wished; but my wife was more strict than
I.
We saw my mother, but only very seldom; she considered that we played
whist badly at our house. The Girauds came sometimes to see us; they
were still busily engaged in negotiating marriages. I gave myself the
pleasure of having them, with Bélan and his wife, at my house. There was
a rattling discharge of epigrams on the part of Giraud. The superb
Armide did not seem to notice them, and as for Bélan, he entrenched
himself behind his wife, whose servant he seemed to be, and to whom he
never spoke without bowing.
In the large parties, the boisterous entertainments which we frequently
attended, there were some pretty married women, and some exceedingly
pretty unmarried ones. I will frankly confess that I sometimes surprised
myself, oblivious of the fact that I was married, making eyes at the
ladies and paying court to the young women; the latter did not respond
to my glances; the fact that I was a married man prevented them from
taking any notice of me; but it was not always the same with the others.
Those periods of forgetfulness, however, lasted only for an instant;
then I was greatly surprised to find that I had been behaving like a
bachelor. There is no great harm in casting a soft glance at another
woman than one’s wife; but if Eugénie had done as much, if she had cast
such a glance at a man, I should have considered it very wrong. Surely I
did not regret that I was married; why then did I behave sometimes in
society as if I were not? But that apparent frivolity was due to my
disposition and not to my heart. I do not consider that because a man is
married he must necessarily behave like an owl, and never dare to laugh
and jest except with his wife; in that case marriage would be too heavy
a chain.
I went sometimes to see Ernest; he too, was a father, the father of a
little boy. He and Marguerite were happy beyond words. Fortune smiled
upon them; Ernest was earning money, and, if he had chosen, there were
plenty of people who would gladly have come to his table to congratulate
him upon his success and to flatter his wife, closing their eyes to what
was lacking in their union. But Marguerite did not choose to go into
society; she insisted that a few real friends are much to be preferred
to parties where women tear one another to pieces and men deceive one
another. She spoke of the world as if she were familiar with it.
“This society in which you wish me to mingle,” she said to Ernest,
“would think that it did me much honor by receiving me; indeed many
women would blush to speak to me. ‘She is not married,’ they would say
to one another as they eyed me contemptuously. And I, my dear, do not
feel disposed to put up with such a greeting. In the bottom of my heart
I feel quite as worthy of esteem as any of those ladies; for I would
give my blood and my life for you; and there is more than one of them
who would not do as much for her husband.”
I considered that my old neighbor was right. Ernest himself had no
answer to make; and yet he would have been glad to have her go sometimes
into the world, in order to acquire the habits of society and to avoid
awkwardness if she should ever receive company. He wished to make his
little Marguerite a lady. It seemed to me that she was very well as she
was.
For some time my wife had been less jealous; perhaps she felt that she
had always been wrong to be jealous; perhaps she had striven to correct
herself. But suppose that that were not the reason? Suppose that she
cared less for me? Mon Dieu! how ingenious we are in inventing tortures
for ourselves! I was unhappy because of my wife’s jealousy; and lo and
behold, I had begun to worry because she left me in peace!
Sometimes, however, I saw that her eyes followed me as of old when I was
speaking to a pretty woman; but if, after playing the gallant, I
approached Eugénie, as if to set her heart at rest, she would look away
with an indifferent air, and pretend that she had not been noticing me.
Was that her new way of loving me, and was there no mean between that
frigid manner and the transports of jealousy?
Among the people who came to my house, there were many men of letters
and artists. Their company was agreeable; they were at least witty in
their malice, and unceremonious in their manners. A very pleasant
painter, whom we had met at many functions, insisted, although a
bachelor, upon giving a ball for the ladies at whose houses he often
danced. Monsieur Leberger issued his invitations, and everybody
accepted. We looked forward to having much sport and merriment at a
party given by a bachelor painter. For my part, I was careful to obtain
invitations for the Bélans and the Girauds; I love to bring enemies
face to face. Leberger invited everybody who was suggested to him, his
most earnest wish being to have a large number of guests; indeed, the
ballroom was to be his studio, and there would be plenty of room.
My wife made some objections to going to the ball; she thought that it
would not be enjoyable, she declared that she no longer cared about
dancing. No longer cared about dancing, and she was but twenty years
old! I insisted that she should go, and she yielded at last. But we did
not start until our little Henriette was asleep; I wished that she were
old enough to go and dance with us.
Two torches at Leberger’s door pointed out his abode when we were still
far away. Our artist was determined that nothing should be lacking at
his ball; the staircase was lighted by candelabra at frequent intervals;
there were no flowers on the stairs, but there were rugs. The strains of
the orchestra guided us, for the ball was already under way. An obliging
neighbor, who lived on the same floor as the artist, had lent him his
apartment, which served both as dressing room and laboratory; for the
punch was concocted and the refreshments prepared in the neighbor’s
apartment.
The studio, transformed into a ballroom, presented a striking
appearance. It was spacious, but well-lighted. Finished pictures,
sketches and studies adorned the walls. Busts, statues, and torsos
served as candelabra; the musicians were perched upon a broad flight of
steps, above which ancient Roman costumes were draped. The orchestra was
made up of amateurs; but those amateurs had the self-assurance and
almost the talent of Tolbecque. Behind them stood a manikin, which held
a serpent to its mouth, as if it were playing on it; and a small flute
was placed in the mouth of an Ajax, and a trombone in the hand of
Belisarius.
There was a great crowd; Leberger had invited a great many of his
fellow-painters, and poets, musicians, and sculptors. The ball was
already well in train. I saw Giraud dancing with his daughter, while his
wife had accepted the invitation of her oldest son, who was beginning to
administer some very graceful kicks to his neighbors. I saw Madame
Bélan, who had deigned to accept the hand of a poet, while her husband
remained with his mother-in-law, Madame de Beausire, who was seated in a
corner of the studio, where she seemed to be posing as the _Mother of
the Maccabees_.
My wife joined some ladies of her acquaintance, and I went to watch a
quadrille. My eyes fell upon a young lady who was dancing very timidly
but who was by no means without grace. I knew that face, yes, I
certainly knew it; but where had I seen it? Was it possible? Yes, it was
Marguerite, it was Madame Ernest. That dress, so different from the
simple one in which I had always seen her, had prevented me from
recognizing her. I was far from expecting to see her at that ball. By
what chance had she come? Probably her husband had insisted. But then he
must be there--yes, there he was, watching his wife dance and gazing at
her with evident pleasure. He was right; she was one of the loveliest
women in the room.
I could see nothing surprising in the fact that Ernest had brought his
wife there; I could see no harm in his taking her everywhere with him;
but there were, in that assemblage, absurd people who did not agree with
me. Luckily a person’s station is not written on his forehead.
But my wife! Since that evening when she had followed me, she was
convinced that I either was or had been on intimate terms with Madame
Firmin. I certainly should not tell her that my former neighbor was
there, but if she should see Ernest, she would undoubtedly find it out.
I was as disturbed as if I were guilty; if I had been, perhaps I should
not have been so embarrassed. However, I could not avoid saying
good-evening to Madame Firmin; I certainly would not be impolite because
my wife was unjust; but I would try to do it without letting her see me.