Part 27

I was wrong, perhaps, in allowing my wife to do whatever she chose; but how would it have served me to put restraint upon her, to restrict her in the gratification of her tastes? It would have made us both unhappy. We married without love, and we were not made to live together. My wife was bored when alone with me, and I did not enjoy being with her. When I tried to talk sensibly to her, to urge her to give a little more time to her housekeeping instead of thinking solely of gewgaws and dress and pleasure, then Pélagie would weep and say that her aunt was justified in calling me a tyrant! What reply could I make to that?--none at all! I cannot bear to see a woman weep. If I had no love for my wife, I did not choose that she should have cause to complain of my treatment; so I allowed her to buy whatever gave her pleasure, and to go to all the balls and festivities to which she was invited. Pélagie spent on dresses, jewels, cabs, and trifles much more than she brought me; but I held my tongue, to avoid little _discussions_. I was determined to do my best to keep the peace, at all events.

Perhaps I should not have left her so often to listen to the whispering of dandies and the soft speeches of salon seducers; but, in truth, it was impossible for me to be jealous. Moreover, my mind was at ease on that score; Pélagie had been brought up very strictly; she was high-principled, and her manners were so modest and bashful! To be sure, she no longer kept her eyes on the floor, and even played the coquette a bit; but I was none the less confident of her fidelity. And then, too, the young men who paid court to her in society never came to my house; I seldom had any male guest except Raymond; and faith! if a man must torment himself in anticipation, his mind would never be at rest.

I hoped to have children; I would have loved them dearly; I would have looked after their education, and it would have been a great joy to me. But I had not had that satisfaction, and the greatest pleasure I knew was to go to my little apartment on Rue Saint-Florentin. There I seemed to be a different man; I fancied myself still a bachelor. In that house nobody knew that I was married; but I never slept there, and my concierge must have thought that I was leading a strange life; I paid her generously, however, and she indulged in no comments. Indeed, who in the house had any reason to complain of me? I took nobody there, I made no noise, I spoke to nobody, and I did not even know who occupied Raymond's apartment on my landing.

For some time past, my wife had been going more frequently than ever to balls and parties which lasted far into the night. I am no foe to gayeties, but I was afraid that her excessive indulgence in them would injure her health. I reproved her mildly, and she answered sharply; a dispute arose, and madame, who had taken a tone which was entirely new to her, and which surprised me in a woman who had always seemed so timid,--in the modest Pélagie,--put an end to the discussion by announcing that she proposed to have a separate room, so that she might be more at liberty.

I asked nothing better. I had a bed put in the room adjoining my study, which was separated from my wife's bedroom by the salon, the reception room, and a small music room. I took possession of my new quarters that same evening. Raymond, being informed of the new arrangement, said that it was an excellent idea, and that it was all that we needed to make a most charming household.

Pélagie spent money freely; with the purpose of trying to put a curb on the follies she was beginning to commit, I began to go into society with her. It would still have been easy for me to form intrigues, to make conquests; for a young husband is as warmly greeted in Paris as a bachelor in the provinces; but I had no inclination for those liaisons of a moment, for those amourettes which do not touch the heart; I was faithful, but not amorous.

Raymond, too, was most constant in his pretended great friendship for us; often he was obliging enough to bring my wife home when I did not care to stay so late as she did; and as we no longer slept together, Madame Dorsan could come in whenever she pleased, and I know nothing about it. I ceased to say anything to her, for I noticed that she consistently did just the opposite of what I urged her to do.

Still, I was afraid that her lungs, which were delicate, would suffer from such constant late hours. The next time that she was to go to a ball, I advised her to stay at home; she would not listen to me. I decided to go with her and to try to induce her to go home early.

Raymond accompanied us to the festivity in question, which was very gorgeous and very largely attended. At midnight, satiated with dust and écarté, I urged my wife to retire.

"What, monsieur!" replied Pélagie; "go away at the very pleasantest part of the evening! Oh! I propose to stay till the end! You can go home to bed; Monsieur Raymond will bring me home."

What was one to say to a little woman who seemed so determined? I went up to Raymond, who anticipated my wishes.

"My dear fellow, go home if you're tired; I'll bring madame home."

"Will you? very good; I shall be much obliged."

I left the house, saying to myself:

"It's a great mistake to laugh at us poor husbands; for, upon my word, anyone else in our place would do just as we do."

I went home and to bed. I slept about three hours; then something, I know not what, awoke me; doubtless it was written that I should wake. I pressed the repeater of my watch: three o'clock. I thought that I would like to know if my wife was at home; ordinarily, I did not disturb myself about it, but she had a cold which made me anxious about her health; if she was not more careful of herself, it might become serious; and, although I did not love her, although she did not make me very happy, as I was more prudent than she, it was my duty to look after her health.

That idea prevented me from going to sleep again; it seemed to me that I should be more at ease if I were sure that she had come home. Why should I not go to her room to make sure? I had never done such a thing since we had slept apart; but my solicitude ought not to offend her; and besides, I could go there without waking her, and she would not even know that I had been to see her. I had a duplicate key to her bedroom, which I had had made when we slept together, so that I could go in without rousing her; for, in the early days of our marriage, she used to go to bed before I came home, and always locked herself in because she was afraid. I had forgotten to give her that key, which lay in my desk; and she had probably forgotten that I had it.

I rose and felt my way to the desk, for I kept no light in my room at night. I found the key, and stole softly from my room to go to my wife.

I walked noiselessly through the intervening rooms, I was careful not to make a sound; one would have thought that I was on my way to an assignation, but it was something very different. When I reached my wife's door I saw a light through the keyhole.--"Good!" I said to myself; "she's at home;" and I was about to creep away, when I fancied that I heard voices. With whom could she be talking? The servants were always in bed when we came home, as we had our own keys. I listened; I could not hear very distinctly; but it seemed to me that that voice--"Parbleu!" I thought; "that would be a strange thing!" A thousand ideas crowded into my mind. I slipped the key in the lock very softly, turned it quickly, entered the room, and--saw Raymond in bed with my wife!

Surprise held me motionless for an instant. Raymond jumped out of bed and ran about the room like a madman; he could not find the door, although there were two. I came to myself and could not resist the temptation to give him a kick that sent him to the floor. But I soon regretted my imprudence. To make an uproar--a scandal--to let the whole household know that I was--I lacked only that!--I put Raymond on his feet, pushed him out of the room, threw his coat in his face, and even gave him a light, so that he might not break his neck on the stairs; it was impossible to be more polite than I was.

"Until to-morrow!" I said.

I imagined that he did not hear me; but, no matter; he had gone, and I returned to my wife.

She had remained in bed; she did not stir.

"As you may imagine," I said to her, "I do not propose to publish this abroad; however, madame, I am not in the humor to continue to live with you; I may be willing to conceal your misconduct, but I do not choose to witness any more of it. Henceforth we will live apart, as divorces are no longer granted, and as we must remain united all our lives by the laws when we have ceased to be united by any sentiment. It is probable that the blame will be laid on me; people will say that I have deserted you after making you unhappy, for so they often judge the acts of others; but it matters little to me; I leave you everything here; you have your property, and I have mine; henceforth let there be nothing in common between us."

Pélagie did not say a single word in reply; indeed, I am inclined to think that she fell asleep during my speech. I took a candle, closed her door, and returned to my own room. I intended to go to bed again; but I felt that I should not be able to sleep. No matter if a man be not in love or jealous, he cannot see such things as that and remain cool. Still, I was well content with the coolness I had displayed; except for the kick administered to Raymond, I had borne myself like a genuine philosopher; but I felt in the bottom of my heart that one is never a philosopher in respect to those things which concern self-esteem and honor. Honor! Ah! Figaro is right when he asks:

"Where in the devil has honor hidden itself?"

I decided to pack up my belongings; that would keep me busy, and I should be able to carry everything away at daybreak, and to leave forever that woman, to whom I had been married about eighteen months, and who had already made of me a--but one does not care to speak that word concerning one's self, although ready enough to apply it to others.

This, then, is the result of that happy marriage!--Ah! my dear sister, why did I hearken to you? Why did I marry a woman who did not love me--a woman who was not suited to me in any one respect! If we had been happy together, if I had enjoyed being with her, if I had not left her so much to her own resources, perhaps it would not have happened!

So that young innocent, that Agnès, that little simpleton, had betrayed me after only eighteen months! Perhaps it had been going on a long while already; and once more it was Raymond who---- But, in truth, I should have foreseen it; it was certain to happen.

"But," I said to myself, "this will be your last escapade, Monsieur Raymond; to-morrow I will call upon you with a pair of pistols, which I will load myself."

The day was beginning to break; I went down into the street, ordered a messenger to go to my room with me, gave him all my goods and chattels to carry, and bade adieu to my home. Thenceforth I would resume my bachelor life.

I had my bundles carried to my old apartment. Ah! how rejoiced I was that I had kept it! It was as if I had divined that I should return to it some day. Madame Dupont stared at my bundles.

"Does this mean that monsieur is going to sleep in his room now?" she asked slyly.

"Yes, Madame Dupont; after this I am going to live as I used to."

That business completed, I took my weapons and went to Raymond's apartment.

"Where are you going, monsieur?" inquired the concierge, when she saw me hurrying upstairs.

"To Monsieur Raymond's."

"Why, monsieur, didn't you know that he'd gone away?"

"What's that? gone away?"

"To be sure; he didn't sleep here; he took his things away during the night, paid his quarter's rent, and told me to sell his furniture, saying that he'd send someone for the money after a while. I don't know what had happened to him, but he seemed so confused that at first I thought he'd gone mad; he was in such a hurry that he didn't take time to pack the most necessary things. And then he rushed off without telling me where he was going."

"The coward! Woe to him if I ever meet him! But he is quite capable of having left Paris!"

I left Raymond's concierge in open-mouthed amazement and returned to Rue Saint-Florentin, to arrange my little apartment with a view to resuming my former habits.

XXXV

MY NEIGHBOR

After a few days I recovered my tranquillity; even my spirits, which I had lost, seemed to return with me to my old lodgings; sometimes I fancied that I was still a bachelor; in truth, the best thing for me to do, now that I had no wife, was to forget that I was married.

As I had foreseen, I was the one at whom the stones were thrown; I received a letter from my sister, who informed me that it was a frightful thing to have deserted my wife; that we simply must be reconciled; that Madame de Pontchartrain was furious, and that Pélagie was constantly asking her for money. In reply, I wrote my sister an exact account of what had happened, begging her to keep it secret. I knew that she would not, but I did not care if the good people of Melun knew that I was a cuckold; I had no desire to go back there.

In my old lodgings I resumed my former mode of life, save for its follies, in which I no longer indulged; indeed, it was necessary for me to lead an orderly, economical life; for my dear wife was running through her fortune very rapidly, and I foresaw that she would soon have recourse to me, and that I should be obliged to make her an allowance.

I congratulated myself on the perfect tranquillity that I enjoyed in my house; I realized that Raymond was no longer my neighbor. I should have been glad to find him, however; but I searched Paris for him in vain; he must have left the city.

Apropos of neighbors, I began to wonder who lived on my landing. I had never seen anybody go in or out; it was clearly some person of very sedentary habits. I was not curious; still, one likes to know who lives so near one. Madame Dupont would tell me.

My concierge continued to do my housework; when she came one morning as usual, she was delighted to find me inclined to converse a little.

"I believe you told me, Madame Dupont, that the rooms Monsieur Raymond used to occupy are let?"

"Certainly they are, monsieur; they weren't vacant a week; somebody hired 'em right away."

"I never happen to see a living soul go in or out; I never hear a sound."

"Oh! the tenant's a very quiet party, never goes out, never has any callers; it's all right, but I don't believe she has a very exciting time."

"It's a woman, is it?"

"Yes, monsieur--and as to respectability and morals--oh! there's nothing to be said."

"Is she an old woman?"

"Not by any means, monsieur; she's a young woman--very young."

"Oho! and pretty?"

"Yes, very pretty--as well as I can see under the big bonnet she always wears."

"What! a young and pretty woman living all alone? no lovers, no husband?"

"No one, I tell you! Oh! if anyone came, I should know it."

"But she must go out sometimes?"

"In the morning, very early, to buy what she needs; you're still asleep, that's why you don't meet her. After that, she never stirs from her room."

"It's very strange!"

"I've tried to talk with her now and then; but she won't talk; it's impossible to get two words out of her. However, as she behaves decently and pays on the dot, there's nothing to be said. But it seems to me that people ought to be obliged to let you know who they are."

I could not help smiling at my concierge's reflection. What she had told me of my neighbor aroused my curiosity a little, and at first I felt a desire to know her; but why should I annoy the young woman? she did not like society; perhaps she had her reasons for avoiding it. I determined to respect her retirement.

I had ceased to go into society; I should have run the risk of meeting my wife or of being beset with disagreeable questions concerning the cause of our separation; in society, people are so indiscreet that they always ask, from preference, the most unpleasant questions, and I did not choose to afford them that pleasure.

I went to the play, to all the places where one is free from restraint. Sometimes I caught a glimpse of my wife in a carriage, or in a box at the theatre with two or three young men; it seemed that she had not regretted Raymond very deeply, and I was not surprised; she was not so constituted as to regret anyone. When I saw her in the distance, I hastened away in the opposite direction; and she did the same; that was the only thing in which we agreed.

I prayed that she might not have children now! I should have to be their father, willy-nilly. How delightful it would be to be presented with a little family that I must support!

"You should have gone back to your wife," someone will say; "then you could have believed that you were the father of your children."

Thanks; I preferred to live in peace and receive such gifts as my wife chose to send me.

I had been a bachelor three months; that time had passed very rapidly, for ennui never found its way into my little apartment. I had resumed my books and my music;--music! so soothing to the heart, and so sympathetic with our joys and our sorrows! Every evening I sat down at my piano and passed two or three hours there; it seemed to me that Nicette was with me, that she was listening to me; I dreamed that she still loved me, that she had never loved anyone else, and I was happy while cajoling myself thus with chimeras; men are great children who cajole themselves all their lives.

Sometimes I forgot the hour; the quiet of the night inclines the heart to feed on illusions, and I abandoned myself to those illusions that fascinated me. No one in the house had complained because I played so late; there was no one above me but maid-servants, whom it did not keep from sleeping; below was an old annuitant, slightly deaf; so that there was nobody except my neighbor on the same landing who might be annoyed by it; but I had asked the concierge if she had said anything about it, and she said _no_. That woman was absolutely invisible; several times I had fancied that I heard her door open, and had gone out quickly; for I confess that I was curious to see her--but her door was already closed.

She might have passed me again and again, and I should not have noticed her; but nothing arouses curiosity so keenly as an air of mystery. I determined to rise very early some morning and try to see her. I made that resolve at night, but I fell asleep and forgot it. I was not the man to do sentry duty on the landing, or to stare through the keyhole ten or fifteen minutes; I left such methods to Raymond.

I heard nothing more from Melun, and for some time past I had not seen my wife; she left me in peace. I heard sometimes, from one of those officious friends whom one meets in spite of one's self, try as one may to avoid them, that Madame Dorsan was no more prudent in her conduct, that she had the same mania for balls and dissipation, that her coquetry increased every day, and a thousand other bits of news no less agreeable. There were some who advised me to exert my rights and to apply for an order to have her confined. I thanked them and turned on my heel; I would swear that the very same people told Pélagie that I was a tyrant, a bear, a wretch unworthy to be the husband of so pretty and interesting a woman, and that I ought to be put under guardianship.

In order to avoid meeting my wife, I frequently went into the country, not in the direction which fashion has made its own, but to those places where the worthy bourgeois and little grisettes go to amuse themselves; the little grisettes whom I used to follow! But I had grown wiser; marriage had _matured_ my head considerably; I might say, had _embellished_ it.

On a certain day I felt more content than usual with the world; I went out on horseback and rode farther than I was accustomed to do. Darkness overtook me at Vincennes; I urged my horse to a gallop, and returned to Paris in time to avoid a storm that reminded me of the evening at Montmorency.

After taking my horse to the stable, I returned home; I felt tired and needed rest. I could hardly drag myself up the stairs. I was about to open the door--but what was it that my hand touched? Could it be? I dared not believe it, and yet I held the bouquet in my hand. I put it to my nose, I inhaled its perfume with intoxicating joy. Yes, it was really a bouquet--in the same place where she used to put them. Ah! it surely was she who brought that one! who else could have made me that present? I hurried into the room; I could hardly wait to examine it. When I was inside and had struck a light, I gazed at that lovely bouquet and kissed it; it was of orange blossoms, the exact counterpart of those she used to bring me. Ah! it was she, of course, who sent it to me! But, in that case, she was in Paris! she still thought of me! she still loved me!

All these ideas chased one another through my brain; I looked to see if there was a note in the bouquet--nothing! I went to the door, I looked in the keyhole and on the floor--nothing! I had only the bouquet; but that was much! She must have been there; I flew downstairs to question Madame Dupont. I forgot my fatigue.

"Has anyone been here to see me?" I asked the concierge.

"No, monsieur."

"What! no one has been to ask for me?--a young lady?"

"I give you my word, monsieur, that I haven't seen anybody who asked for you, and I haven't been away from my door."

"Oh! you never see anything! you never used to see her before!"

"Who, monsieur?"

"Someone came, all the same, for I found this bouquet on my doorknob."

"Well, well! that's very funny; somebody must have made a mistake in the door."

"Mistake! no, there's no mistake; it was she who came."

"She! who's she?"

"Raise the latch, Madame Dupont."

"What, monsieur! are you going out again now? Wait till the storm has passed; it's raining bucketsful."

"Open the door, I tell you!"

The concierge dared not make any further suggestions. I went out; I had no idea where I was going, but I was absolutely determined to find out something about Nicette, to learn where she was. I hurried along the street, looking all about me--no one! It was a terrible storm. I went to Rue Saint-Honoré, to her former shop; it seemed to me that I might learn something by going to the place where she used to live; but the shop was closed, tightly closed. I knocked--there was no reply. I entered the café opposite and asked the waiters if the former flower girl had returned to her shop. They stared at me, having no very clear idea what I was saying; I was so excited, and my rain-soaked clothes and muddy boots gave me such a wild aspect, that they took me for a lunatic, I doubt not. I left the café without obtaining any information. Where should I go next? I was still determined to find her.--Ah! perhaps where her mother used to live. It was a terribly long way, but I ran there without stopping. It was quite late; I could find nothing open but a grocery in the neighborhood of Mère Jérôme's house. I went in and inquired; there I was at least more courteously treated than at the café, because the grocer was more accustomed to see drenched and muddy people. But I learned nothing; since Madame Jérôme's death her daughters had not been seen in the quarter. So I must needs renounce all hope of learning what had become of her! But, no; I would hope on; she had sent me a bouquet, and perhaps she would return.