It seemed at first as if Philibert’s return were going to make very
little difference to me. For some weeks I was scarcely aware of his
presence in the house. There was plenty of room for us to live there
without running into each other. When we did meet at the front door
or on the stairs, his manner was marked by just that formal courtesy
that was the usual sign of deference from a man of his world towards
his wife. To the servants, there was always one or two present at such
encounters; there could have been visible no flaw in his armour, nor in
mine.
Our first meeting had been brief. Whatever his intention in seeking me
out in my boudoir, it took him not more than five minutes to find out
that there was nothing to be gained by a prolonged conversation, and on
the whole, nothing to be feared from me, did he but leave me alone, but
I imagined that I read upon his face more disappointment than relief.
He had not been afraid, perhaps just a little uneasy, but he had been
curious. He had expected something, and as he left me the expression of
his back and the vague fumbling of his hand in the tail pocket of his
coat, gave me the impression that whatever it was he had wanted, he was
going away without it. This impression, however, was fleeting, a deeper
and more painful one remained, and kept me a long time idle at my desk.
He was changed in a way that for some subtle inexplicable reason had
made me ashamed to look at him. There was in his pallid puffy face, in
the sag of his shoulders and the crook of his knees, something that I
did not want to understand, something that he had no right to show me.
Inside his immaculate clothes he was shrivelled to half his size. His
wonderful padded coat sat on him as if on a lifeless and flaccid dummy
out of which had escaped a good deal of the sawdust stuffing. Bianca
had done with him. She had worn him out. He looked old. His eccentric
elegance no longer became him. It was as unsuccessful as a plastered
make-up on the face of an old woman. That was the sharpest impression
of all, he looked a failure. I wondered that he had the courage to show
himself, not to me but to Paris, where he had always walked with such
impudent assurance. His showing himself to me seemed to me not half so
daring. It seemed to me to prove once more and finally his complete
contempt for my opinion.
I went on with my life. If I found that the savour had gone out of it,
I did not admit this all at once to myself. The situation didn’t bear
thinking about. If one thought about it one would be likely to find it
quite extraordinary enough to upset one’s mentality, and I proposed not
to be upset by it, and Philibert, apparently, with a certain exercise
of tact that reminded one of a burglar arranging the furniture and
putting out the lights after ransacking a room, made things as easy
for me as he could, by, as I say, keeping out of my sight. I soon
found, however, that he wasn’t keeping out of other people’s. On the
contrary, I began to be conscious of him moving about near me among his
friends. It was really rather funny. Only at home under the roof that
housed us both, was I quite free from him. In other people’s houses I
was constantly meeting his shadow. He had either been there, or was
coming, occasionally I was certain, that he had but just taken his
departure as I came in. Something of him remained in the room. I caught
myself looking about for his hat, and the faces of my acquaintances
betrayed varying shades of discomfiture or amusement. Mostly I
gathered as time went on, was their feeling one of amusement. Paris
had not been at all squeamish in welcoming Philibert, and it found our
continued _chassé-croisé_ rather ridiculous. But with its very special
adaptibility and its extraordinary flair for situations, it continued
to be tolerant of my evident absurd wish not to be coupled with my
husband, and did not ask us out together.
Aunt Clothilde, sitting enthroned like some comic Juno above the social
earth, put an end to this. As was her habit she sent for me and barged
into the subject in hand.
“Now then, Jane, this sort of thing must stop.”
“What sort of thing, Aunt?”
“You and Philibert playing hide and seek all over Paris like a couple
of silly children. Don’t pretend you don’t understand. You chose your
‘_parti_’ long ago when you didn’t insist upon a separation, so now you
must go through with it. Nothing is so stupid as doing things half way.
You’ve ignored his behaviour. You’ve not bolted the door in his face,
and to all appearances you’re a reunited couple.”