Whether we are sad or merry, happy or wretched, rich or poor, the Fates
spin the web of our days none the less. Mine was no longer of silk and
gold; but still the days passed; they seemed longer to me than if I had
been happy; that was all the difference, and therein people who are fond
of life should find some compensation; for years of sorrow count double.
I had been married only a year, and I had already acquired all the ways
of an old married man. I did not go out with my wife in the morning; she
knew Paris as well as I did, and no longer needed my company; she went
out to pay visits, to make purchases, or to walk; I either worked at
home or went my own way. We almost always had someone to dinner, very
frequently Raymond, who had become the friend of the family. It was not
that I liked him any better than formerly; no, I did not look upon him
as a friend in the least degree; but he had become necessary to me, he
diverted my thoughts, he went about with my wife; he was always at our
service if we needed him to take part in a game or to do an errand; he
was really extremely obliging. Lastly, he had known Nicette, he was the
only person with whom I could talk of her now and then; that reason
alone was sufficient to lead me to seek his society. And yet, it was to
him that I owed a part of my sorrow; but he had rendered me a service by
showing Nicette to me as she really was. If she had listened to him,
she must have listened to many others! In a word, his presence was often
painful to me, and yet I constantly sought it--I always hoped that he
would contradict what he had told me about her.
As for my wife, she could not do without Raymond; he was with her almost
every evening, while I went to my little bachelor apartment. They played
together; Raymond played the flute a little, and my wife the piano; they
both sang also. Raymond was an inferior musician, and my wife was never
in time; together, they considered themselves very fine. And then,
Raymond had a supply of compliments and gallant phrases which delighted
my wife, who had plenty of self-esteem and coquetry, and loved to be
told that she turned all the men's heads and that she was as witty as a
demon.
I confess that I had never been able to tell my wife that she had
overmuch wit. Indeed, I had long since ceased to tell her that she was
pretty; it seemed superfluous to me; I had told her so when I was
courting her, and I could not keep saying the same thing forever. Such
talk seems to me most futile; a husband and wife ought to prove their
love to each other without having to pay each other compliments. But
Pélagie, who did not know what to reply when you talked to her on a
subject of real interest, knew enough to smile at flattery; and Raymond
declared that her smile said many things. If I attempted to talk
sensibly with her, she yawned; thereupon I left her, only too glad when
Raymond was there to take my place.
I was wrong, perhaps, in allowing my wife to do whatever she chose; but
how would it have served me to put restraint upon her, to restrict her
in the gratification of her tastes? It would have made us both unhappy.
We married without love, and we were not made to live together. My wife
was bored when alone with me, and I did not enjoy being with her. When I
tried to talk sensibly to her, to urge her to give a little more time to
her housekeeping instead of thinking solely of gewgaws and dress and
pleasure, then Pélagie would weep and say that her aunt was justified in
calling me a tyrant! What reply could I make to that?--none at all! I
cannot bear to see a woman weep. If I had no love for my wife, I did not
choose that she should have cause to complain of my treatment; so I
allowed her to buy whatever gave her pleasure, and to go to all the
balls and festivities to which she was invited. Pélagie spent on
dresses, jewels, cabs, and trifles much more than she brought me; but I
held my tongue, to avoid little _discussions_. I was determined to do my
best to keep the peace, at all events.
Perhaps I should not have left her so often to listen to the whispering
of dandies and the soft speeches of salon seducers; but, in truth, it
was impossible for me to be jealous. Moreover, my mind was at ease on
that score; Pélagie had been brought up very strictly; she was
high-principled, and her manners were so modest and bashful! To be sure,
she no longer kept her eyes on the floor, and even played the coquette a
bit; but I was none the less confident of her fidelity. And then, too,
the young men who paid court to her in society never came to my house; I
seldom had any male guest except Raymond; and faith! if a man must
torment himself in anticipation, his mind would never be at rest.
I hoped to have children; I would have loved them dearly; I would have
looked after their education, and it would have been a great joy to me.
But I had not had that satisfaction, and the greatest pleasure I knew
was to go to my little apartment on Rue Saint-Florentin. There I seemed
to be a different man; I fancied myself still a bachelor. In that house
nobody knew that I was married; but I never slept there, and my
concierge must have thought that I was leading a strange life; I paid
her generously, however, and she indulged in no comments. Indeed, who in
the house had any reason to complain of me? I took nobody there, I made
no noise, I spoke to nobody, and I did not even know who occupied
Raymond's apartment on my landing.
For some time past, my wife had been going more frequently than ever to
balls and parties which lasted far into the night. I am no foe to
gayeties, but I was afraid that her excessive indulgence in them would
injure her health. I reproved her mildly, and she answered sharply; a
dispute arose, and madame, who had taken a tone which was entirely new
to her, and which surprised me in a woman who had always seemed so
timid,--in the modest Pélagie,--put an end to the discussion by
announcing that she proposed to have a separate room, so that she might
be more at liberty.
I asked nothing better. I had a bed put in the room adjoining my study,
which was separated from my wife's bedroom by the salon, the reception
room, and a small music room. I took possession of my new quarters that
same evening. Raymond, being informed of the new arrangement, said that
it was an excellent idea, and that it was all that we needed to make a
most charming household.
Pélagie spent money freely; with the purpose of trying to put a curb on
the follies she was beginning to commit, I began to go into society
with her. It would still have been easy for me to form intrigues, to
make conquests; for a young husband is as warmly greeted in Paris as a
bachelor in the provinces; but I had no inclination for those liaisons
of a moment, for those amourettes which do not touch the heart; I was
faithful, but not amorous.
Raymond, too, was most constant in his pretended great friendship for
us; often he was obliging enough to bring my wife home when I did not
care to stay so late as she did; and as we no longer slept together,
Madame Dorsan could come in whenever she pleased, and I know nothing
about it. I ceased to say anything to her, for I noticed that she
consistently did just the opposite of what I urged her to do.
Still, I was afraid that her lungs, which were delicate, would suffer
from such constant late hours. The next time that she was to go to a
ball, I advised her to stay at home; she would not listen to me. I
decided to go with her and to try to induce her to go home early.
Raymond accompanied us to the festivity in question, which was very
gorgeous and very largely attended. At midnight, satiated with dust and
écarté, I urged my wife to retire.
"What, monsieur!" replied Pélagie; "go away at the very pleasantest part
of the evening! Oh! I propose to stay till the end! You can go home to
bed; Monsieur Raymond will bring me home."
What was one to say to a little woman who seemed so determined? I went
up to Raymond, who anticipated my wishes.
"My dear fellow, go home if you're tired; I'll bring madame home."
"Will you? very good; I shall be much obliged."