I wished that I could have transformed myself into one of those crafty,
unctuous priests, to whom women confess their most secret faults, to
whom they entrust their souls and frequently ask for advice, and that
Elaine would have come and knelt at the grating of the confessional,
where I should press her closely with questions, and gradually extract
sincere confidences from her.
As soon as I am by the side of a young or old woman now, I try to give
our conversation a ticklish turn; I forget all reserve and I try to make
her talk of those jokes which nettle, those words of double meaning
which excite, and to lead her up to the only subject that interests and
holds me, to find out what she feels in her body as well as in her
heart, on that night, when for the first time, she has to undergo the
nuptial ordeal. Some do not appear to understand me, blush, leave me as
if I were some unpleasant, ill-mannered person, and had offended them;
as if I had tried to force open the precious casket in which they keep
their sweetest recollections.
Others, on the other hand, understand me only too well, scent something
equivocal and ridiculous, though they do not exactly know what, make me
go on, and finally get out of the difficulty by some subtle piece of
impertinence, and a burst of chaffing laughter.
Two or three at most, and they were those pretty little upstarts who
talk at random, and brag about their vice, and whom one could soon not
leave a leg to stand upon, were one to take the trouble, have related
their impressions to me with ironical complaisance, and I found nothing
in what they told me that reassured me, nor could I discover anything
serious, true or moving in it.
That supreme initiation amused them as much as if it had been a scene
from a comedy; the small amount of affection that they felt for the man
with whom their existence had been associated grew less and evaporated
altogether--and they remembered nothing about it except its ridiculous
and hateful side, and described it as a sort of pantomime in which they
played a bad part. But these did not love and were not adored like
Elaine was. They married either from interest, or that they might not
remain old maids, that they might have more liberty and escape from
troublesome guardianship.
Foolish dolls, without either heart or head, they had neither that
almost diseased nervosity, nor that requirement for affection, nor that
instinct of love which I discovered in my wife's nature, and which
attracted me, at the same time that it terrified me.
Besides, who could convince me of my errors? Who could dissipate that
darkness in which I was lost? What miracle could restore _all_ my belief
in her again?