“Oh! that's true! When I knew you, you were engaged to Mademoiselle de
Mandel, I believe.”
“Yes, monsieur, your memory is excellent.”
I grew very bold and added: “I also seem to remember hearing that
Mademoiselle de Mandel married Monsieur--Monsieur--”
He calmly mentioned the name: “Monsieur de Fleurel.”
“Yes, that's it! I remember it was on that occasion that I heard of your
wound.”
I looked him full in the face, and he blushed. His full face, which was
already red from the oversupply of blood, turned crimson. He answered
quickly, with a sudden ardor of a man who is pleading a cause which is
lost in his mind and in his heart, but which he does not wish to admit.
“It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name with that of Madame de
Fleurel. When I returned from the war-without my feet, alas! I never
would have permitted her to become my wife. Was it possible? When one
marries, monsieur, it is not in order to parade one's generosity; it
is in order to live every day, every hour, every minute, every second
beside a man; and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it is a death
sentence to marry him! Oh, I understand, I admire all sacrifices and
devotions when they have a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should
give up her whole life, all joy, all her dreams, in order to satisfy
the admiration of the gallery. When I hear, on the floor of my room,
the tapping of my wooden legs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough to
strangle my servant. Do you think that I would permit a woman to do what
I myself am unable to tolerate? And, then, do you think that my stumps
are pretty?”
He was silent. What could I say? He certainly was right. Could I blame
her, hold her in contempt, even say that she was wrong? No. However, the
end which conformed to the rule, to the truth, did not satisfy my poetic
appetite. These heroic deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, which seemed
to be lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment. I suddenly asked:
“Has Madame de Fleurel any children?”
“Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for them that I am bringing these
toys. She and her husband are very kind to me.”
The train was going up the incline to Saint-Germain. It passed through
the tunnels, entered the station, and stopped. I was about to offer my
arm to the wounded officer, in order to help him descend, when two hands
were stretched up to him through the open door.
“Hello! my dear Revaliere!”
“Ah! Hello, Fleurel!”
Standing behind the man, the woman, still beautiful, was smiling and
waving her hands to him. A little girl, standing beside her, was jumping
for joy, and two young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the gun,
which were passing from the car into their father's hands.
When the cripple was on the ground, all the children kissed him. Then
they set off, the little girl holding in her hand the small varnished
rung of a crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend and hold
his thumb.