"My poor Gaston, you are getting bored down here. Let us go back to
Paris, won't you?"
"To Paris?" he said. "But why? I only wanted to find out if I had any
gift, to taste the flowing bowl of success!"
Nothing would be easier than for me to ransack the drawer sometime while
he is working and pretend great surprise at finding the money gone.
But that would be going half-way to meet the answer, "Oh! my friend
So-and-So was hard up!" etc., which a man of Gaston's quick wit would
not have far to seek.
The moral, my dear, is that the brilliant success of this play, which
all Paris is crowding to see, is due to us, though the whole credit goes
to Nathan. I am represented by one of the two stars in the legend: Et M
* *. I saw the first night from the depths of one of the stage boxes.
July 1st.
Gaston's work and his visits to Paris shall continue. He is preparing
new plays, partly because he wants a pretext for going to Paris, partly
in order to make money. Three plays have been accepted, and two more are
commissioned.
Oh! my dear, I am lost, all is darkness around me. I would set fire to
the house in a moment if that would bring light. What does it all mean?
Is he ashamed of taking money from me? He is too high-minded for so
trumpery a matter to weigh with him. Besides, scruples of the kind could
only be the outcome of some love affair. A man would take anything from
his wife, but from the woman he has ceased to care for, or is thinking
of deserting, it is different. If he needs such large sums, it must be
to spend them on a woman. For himself, why should he hesitate to draw
from my purse? Our savings amount to one hundred thousand francs!
In short, my sweetheart, I have explored a whole continent of
possibilities, and after carefully weighing all the evidence, am
convinced I have a rival. I am deserted--for whom? At all costs I must
see the unknown.
July 10th.
Light has come, and it is all over with me. Yes, Renee, at the age of
thirty, in the perfection of my beauty, with all the resources of
a ready wit and the seductive charms of dress at my command, I am
betrayed--and for whom? A large-boned Englishwoman, with big feet and
thick waist--a regular British cow! There is no longer room for doubt. I
will tell you the history of the last few days.
Worn out with suspicions, which were fed by Gaston's guilty silence
(for, if he had helped a friend, why keep it a secret from me?), his
insatiable desire for money, and his frequent journeys to Paris; jealous
too of the work from which he seemed unable to tear himself, I at last
made up my mind to take certain steps, of such a degrading nature that
I cannot tell you about them. Suffice it to say that three days ago I
ascertained that Gaston, when in Paris, visits a house in the Rue de
la Ville l'Eveque, where he guards his mistress with jealous mystery,
unexampled in Paris. The porter was surly, and I could get little out of
him, but that little was enough to put an end to any lingering hope, and
with hope to life. On this point my mind was resolved, and I only waited
to learn the whole truth first.
With this object I went to Paris and took rooms in a house exactly
opposite the one which Gaston visits. Thence I saw him with my own eyes
enter the courtyard on horseback. Too soon a ghastly fact forced itself
on me. This Englishwoman, who seems to me about thirty-six, is known as
Mme. Gaston. This discovery was my deathblow.
I saw him next walking to the Tuileries with a couple of children. Oh!
my dear, two children, the living images of Gaston! The likeness is
so strong that it bears scandal on the face of it. And what pretty
children! in their handsome English costumes! She is the mother of his
children. Here is the key to the whole mystery.
The woman herself might be a Greek statue, stepped down from some
monument. Cold and white as marble, she moves sedately with a mother's
pride. She is undeniably beautiful but heavy as a man-of-war. There
is no breeding or distinction about her; nothing of the English lady.
Probably she is a farmer's daughter from some wretched and remote
country village, or, it may be, the eleventh child of some poor
clergyman!
I reached home, after a miserable journey, during which all sorts of
fiendish thoughts had me at their mercy, with hardly any life left in
me. Was she married? Did he know her before our marriage? Had she been
deserted by some rich man, whose mistress she was, and thus thrown back
upon Gaston's hands? Conjectures without end flitted through my brain,
as though conjecture were needed in the presence of the children.
The next day I returned to Paris, and by a free use of my purse
extracted from the porter the information that Mme. Gaston was legally
married.