Blérot had been my friend since childhood; we had no secrets from each
other, and were united heart and soul by a brotherly intimacy and a
boundless confidence in each other. He used to tell me his most intimate
thoughts, even the smallest pangs of conscience that are very often
kept hidden from our own selves. I did the same for him. I had been the
confident of all his love affairs, as he had been with mine.
When he told me that he was going to get married I was hurt, as though
by an act of treason. I felt that it must interfere with that cordial and
absolute affection which had united us. His wife would come between us.
The intimacy of the marriage-bed establishes a kind of complicity, a
mysterious alliance between two persons, even when they have ceased to
love each other. Man and wife are like two discreet partners who will not
let anyone else into their secrets. But that close bond which the conjugal
kiss fastens is broken quickly on the day on which the woman takes a lover.
I remember Blérot's wedding as if it were but yesterday. I would not be
present at the signing of the marriage contract, as I have no particular
liking for such ceremonies. I only went to the civil wedding and to the
church.
His wife, whom I had never seen before, was a tall, slight girl, with
pale hair, pale cheeks, pale hands, and eyes to match. She walked with a
slightly undulating motion, as if she were on board a ship, and seemed to
advance with a succession of long, graceful courtesies.
Blérot seemed very much in love with her. He looked at her constantly,
and I felt a shiver of an immoderate desire for her pass through his
frame.