We hired an apartment on Boulevard Montmartre; it was rather expensive, but very attractive. We could not take possession for three months. Meanwhile, my wife was in a most delightful mood, save for the petty discussions which occur between the most closely attached couples; for after all, we are not perfect. My EugÉnie was as she used to be in the earlier days of our married life; she never mentioned Ernest or Marguerite, and I did not tell her that I went sometimes to see them.

One lovely winter morning we determined to go to see our daughter. We could not bear to wait until spring to embrace our little Henriette. No sooner had we formed the plan than I went out to hire a cabriolet for the whole day. I provided a cold chicken, a pie and a bottle of bordeaux; things which are difficult to procure at a nurse’s house, but which are never out of place anywhere. EugÉnie wore a large bonnet which protected her from the wind, and a large, thick cloak; I wrapped myself in my own cloak, simply leaving my hands free to drive; and we started for Livry.

It was a beautiful drive, the air was sharp, but the sun shone brightly. And we had, what was better still, love and good spirits for travelling companions; so that we made the journey merrily enough. When my hands were too cold, EugÉnie took the reins and drove for me.

We sang and laughed and ate in our cabriolet; we were our own masters; there were only we two; no tiresome coachman behind to grumble if we went too fast or if we whipped the horse, or to sneer as he counted the kisses we exchanged. It is so pleasant for people who love each other to be alone!

We drove along the outskirts of the famous forest of Bondy, which is much less famous to-day, because there are fewer thieves in the forest and more in the salons. In due time we reached Livry, a village where there are almost no cottages, a town where there are few houses. We found our nurse’s house, and made a triumphal entry into a yard full of manure, mud and pools of water; what the peasants call piqueux. My wife had already alighted from the carriage; she had spied the nurse with a little one in her arms; and she ran to her, and seized the child, crying:

“This is my daughter! I know her!”

For my part, I confess that I should never have known her. When my daughter left us, she was three days old; and I consider that at that age all children resemble each other. She was now four months; one could begin to distinguish something; but I should never have been able to tell whether she was my daughter, or the nurse’s child, who was three months older; mothers never make a mistake.

EugÉnie examined her daughter admiringly and insisted that she looked like me already. With the best will in the world, I could detect no resemblance; and although I felt that I should love my daughter dearly, frankly, I could as yet see nothing adorable about her.

What I admired was the corpulence and robust health of our nurse. That woman surely had strength enough to nurse four children at once; and as I contemplated her fat cheeks and her broad chest, I said, like Diderot: “One could kiss her for six weeks without kissing her twice in the same place.”

I had done well to bring eatables, for we found nothing there but eggs, milk and pork; rustic delicacies, but not succulent. I ate with the peasants, while my wife held her daughter and crooned over her. EugÉnie said that I was a glutton, that I preferred the pie to my daughter. I was very fond of both. I admit that I was unable to arouse any enthusiasm for a little creature who could not speak and could not do anything but make faces; but my heart told me that I should be none the less a good father, for all that. Exaggeration leads one wide of the truth, and enthusiasm does not demonstrate real feeling.

We went to walk about the neighborhood. We did not admire the verdure, because it was freezing weather; but we discovered some lovely spots and views, which must have been delightful in summer; and some fields too, where it must have been very pleasant to roll about when the grass had grown.

We returned and sat down in front of a snapping fire; one can warm oneself so luxuriantly in front of the huge fireplaces that we find in the country; they are the only things that our excellent ancestors had which I regret.

We ate again, for we always return to that at last, and always with pleasure; then we embraced the child, the nurse, everybody, and returned to the cabriolet. It was almost five o’clock, and in winter darkness comes on early.

At night, the cold seemed more intense. EugÉnie and I sat close together. My cloak, which was very large, was wrapped around us both; we tried in every way to keep warm. EugÉnie sat on my knee and drove; I made no objection; it was almost dark. Suddenly the horse stopped, and EugÉnie and I concluded that we were off the road. I had only a very vague idea where we were; but the horse, finding that he was no longer guided by the reins, had turned aside, and was standing across the road, facing the ditch.

We laughed over our plight and our distraction, which might have landed us in the ditch. But luckily our horse was not in love. I took the reins again, I steered the carriage into the right road, and we returned to Paris, thinking that it had been a very short day, and fully determined to go to see the nurse again.

A few days after this visit to Livry, on returning home, I found Ernest in the salon talking with my wife. I had often urged him to come to see me, and he had never done so before. I was greatly surprised to find that my EugÉnie was making herself very agreeable; I feared that she would treat him coldly at least. But I soon understood why she had not laid aside her usual gracious manner: Ernest had given his family name only, and I had not mentioned that to my wife.

“Here is one of your friends, Monsieur Firmin, who has been waiting for you a long while,” said EugÉnie when I appeared. “I have never had the pleasure of seeing monsieur before. I think that he was not at our wedding.”

“That is true,” I said, taking his hand. “I confess that—that I forgot him. On that day a man is permitted to have a poor memory.”

I was a little embarrassed. I dared not ask Ernest about his wife, for I was certain that EugÉnie did not know that her visitor was the lover of my former neighbor. I began hastily to talk about the theatre and literature; I led Ernest to his favorite ground, and he told me all the news of the wings. But suddenly he exclaimed:

“I was very sorry not to be at home when you called the day before yesterday. My wife told me that you waited for me a long while.”

“Is monsieur married?” EugÉnie instantly inquired.

Ernest replied by simply bowing. Then he continued:

“I was all the more vexed, because I had a box at the Vaudeville to give you, which perhaps would have entertained madame.”

EugÉnie bowed, and I tried to lead the conversation back to the theatre; but Ernest, having no suspicion of my apprehension, soon said to me:

“Marguerite, who used to be so fond of the theatre, is beginning to tire of it; I take her so often!”

At the name of Marguerite, my wife turned pale; then she said to me with a forced smile:

“Can it be that monsieur is Monsieur Ernest?”

“Yes, this is Monsieur Ernest Firmin, whom I have mentioned to you many times.”

“Ah yes! I know, and whose wife used to live in this house.”

Ernest bowed again. I held my peace, but I felt that I was blushing, for EugÉnie had said the word wife in a tone of irony which hurt me. There was malice in it, and I could not understand how she could make malicious remarks to a person who had never injured her.

Luckily Ernest, I thought, did not detect my wife’s meaning. He continued to talk of literature and theatres. EugÉnie did not say another word, and her manner was as cold as it had been affable when I arrived. I carried on the conversation with Ernest. At last he rose and said good-bye; and, as he took leave of my wife, he offered to send her tickets sometimes if it would afford her pleasure. EugÉnie replied that she did not care for the theatre; but that reply was made in such a contemptuous and discourteous tone that Ernest could not fail to be hurt by it. However, he simply glanced at me, half smiled, pressed my hand significantly and took his leave.

I expected a quarrel or scene of some sort; for I was beginning to discover that when one is married, one must often expect something. EugÉnie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and betook myself to my study. I passed the rest of the day without seeing her.

But, at dinner time, annoyed that she did not leave her room, I decided to go in search of her. I found her sitting in a chair and weeping bitterly. I ran to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.

“What does all this mean, EugÉnie? Why are you crying? What is it that causes your sorrow?”

“You, monsieur.”

“I?”

“Ah! you make me very unhappy!”

“I make you unhappy? I must confess that I did not expect such a reproach. When I try to gratify all your desires, all your tastes; when I have no other will than yours, I make you unhappy! Upon my word, women are most unjust! What would you say, pray, EugÉnie, if you had a scolding, capricious, dissipated, or gambling husband?”

“Mon Dieu! I am well aware, monsieur, that a husband thinks that he has done his duty when he has given his wife the bonnet and shawl that she wants; but for my part, I should prefer that you should have all the faults that you just mentioned, if you would be faithful to me.”

“And you reproach me with being unfaithful! you address such a reproach as that to me!”

“Do you dare to deny that you have been going to see your former neighbor, this Madame Ernest?”

“No, madame, I have never denied it; why should I deny anything when I have done nothing wrong?”

“Still, you have not told me of it, and but for that gentleman’s call, I should not have known it.”

“I have not told you of it because your absurd suspicions obliged me to keep it secret. I felt sure that you would discover something wrong in it; so that it was useless for me to tell you a thing which can hardly be said to concern you.”

“Ah! so it doesn’t concern me that you go to make love to other women! What a horrible thing to say!”

“EugÉnie, you are perfectly absurd! I feel very sorry for you!”

“When one discovers the intrigues of these gentlemen, one is absurd. Will you say again that her lover is always there when you go there? It is a pity that he himself said that you waited for him a long time. Idiot! not to see why you go to his house when he isn’t there!”

“Oh! how patient a man must be, to listen to such nonsense!”

“I am sure that you go every day to see your old neighbor, this Marguerite. I do not know her, but I detest her, I have a perfect horror of her. Her Monsieur Ernest had better not think of bringing her here, for I will turn her out of doors,—Mon Dieu! mon Dieu! after being married only fifteen months, to have a mistress!”

She hid her face in her hands and began to sob again. Her tears made me forgive her injustice. I was about to go to her and to try to make her listen to reason, when she suddenly sprang to her feet, saying:

“Very well, monsieur, if you have a mistress, I warn you that I will have a lover.”

I confess that those words produced an exceedingly disagreeable effect on me; I was well aware that they were said in anger; but I would never have believed that EugÉnie could conceive such a thought.

“Madame,” I said, in a tone in which there was no trace of gentleness, “do not drive me beyond bounds, or wear out my patience. I am willing to tell you once more that I have no mistress, that Madame Ernest never was and never will be my mistress, that I very rarely go to see them, and that it is a mere chance that Ernest is not there when I go. Indeed, as he is not a government clerk, it is impossible to be sure when he will be absent. But now, madame, remember this: even if I had one or several mistresses, if I neglected or totally abandoned my family, that would give you no right at all to have a lover, A man’s position and his wife’s are entirely different. I may have love-affairs, waste my fortune, ruin my health; that will not dishonor you, madame, and will not bring strange children into the bosom of your family. It is not the same with the conduct of a wife; a single misstep ruins her in the eyes of society, and may compel her husband’s children to share their bread with her seducer’s children.”

“That is all very convenient, monsieur; it proves that you can do what you please and that wives have simply to pass their lives weeping. Is that fair, monsieur?”

“If you consider that too hard, too cruel, why do you women marry? You should know what you undertake when you take that step.”

“You are right, it would be much better not to marry—to do like Mademoiselle Marguerite; then one is free to follow one’s inclinations, to drop people and take them up again at pleasure.”

I made no reply. I paced the floor back and forth. Meanwhile EugÉnie had ceased to weep and had wiped her eyes; a moment later she came to me and laid her hand gently on my arm:

“Henri, perhaps I was a little wrong. But if this woman never has been, and is not now your mistress, if you do not love her—swear to me that you do not love her.”

“Yes, I swear to you that I do not love her, and that I have never been her lover.”

“Well then, my dear, to prove that, you must promise me that you will never in your life put your foot inside their door again.”

“No, I am very sorry, but I will not promise that.”

“Why not, if you do not love the woman?”

“It is just because I have no relations with Madame Ernest that I propose to continue to see her and her husband just when it suits me. Besides, listen, my dear love: to-day you are jealous of her and don’t want me to go there any more; in a few days you will be jealous of someone else, and you will forbid me to go somewhere else. Things cannot go on so. I love you, I love you as dearly as on the day we married; but I don’t propose to be your slave. There is nothing more ridiculous than a man who does not dare to take a step without his wife’s permission; there is nothing more impertinent for a woman than to say to her husband: ‘You shall not go here or there, because I do not want you to.’”

“But, Henri, I don’t forbid you to go, I simply beg you not to.”

“No, my dear EugÉnie; I am distressed to refuse, but I shall go where I please.”

“And you dare to say that you do not love that woman?”

“If I loved her you would never have known that I went there, you would never have heard of her.”

“So you prefer the friendship of those people to my repose and happiness? You sacrifice my peace of mind to them?”

“Your peace of mind should not be disturbed by my visits to Ernest. I say again, I will not give way to absurd suspicions, and I will do as I please.”

“Very good, monsieur; I appreciate your love at its real value now.”

And madame returned to her room; I sat down at the table and ate my dinner. EugÉnie did not return; I dined alone. It was the first time since our marriage; alas, I would never have believed that it could happen.

My dinner was soon at an end; nothing takes away the appetite like a dispute. And to dispute with a person whom one loves makes one angry and grieved at the same time.

I went out immediately after dinner. I walked aimlessly, but I walked on and on; nothing is so good as the fresh air to calm ill humor. But it was cold; and I finally went into the VariÉtÉs. That is a theatre where there is usually something to laugh at, and it is so pleasant to laugh!

I took a seat in the orchestra. I spied BÉlan there, no longer becurled and in a tight-fitting coat, as he always used to be before his marriage, but clad in a full-skirted frock coat, buttoned to the chin, and with a solemn face which in no wise resembled that of a man who was in search of conquests.

Was that the effect of marriage? Could it be that I myself had undergone the same metamorphosis?

I was glad to meet BÉlan; I hoped that the meeting would divert my thoughts from my own troubles. I took a seat beside him. The ex-lady-killer was so absorbed in his own reflections that he did not recognize me.

“Well, BÉlan, are you enjoying the play?”

“Hallo! it’s my old friend BlÉmont! What a lucky meeting! Since we have been married, we hardly see each other at all. Ah! we had lots of fun together in the old days, when we were bachelors! those were the good old times!”

“What! do you repent already of being married?”

“No, certainly not; I only said that in jest. Oh! I am very happy; but what I mean is that a married man owes it to himself not to run wild like a bachelor. However, I am exceedingly happy.”

“I congratulate you. How does it happen that madame is not with you?”

“Oh! she is dining out with her mother, at a house where they couldn’t invite me, because I would have made thirteen at the table. I am going to call for her. But as it is a house where they dine very late, Armide told me not to hurry, not to come until between ten and eleven. That is why I came here to pass the time. But how is it with you, my dear BlÉmont? I thought that you never left your adored wife; everybody speaks of you as a pair of turtledoves.”

“Oh! turtledoves don’t always agree. We have had a little quarrel and I came to the theatre for distraction.”

“The deuce! really? you have had a quarrel? Well, that’s like me. I often have quarrels with Armide, but that doesn’t prevent me from being happy. They are little clouds which soon pass away.”

“And does your mother-in-law still weep all the time?”

“Oh! don’t speak of my mother-in-law! I admit that she is my nightmare; it is she who stirs up her daughter. I know well enough that she doesn’t do it from any bad motive; she is too noble for that. But when one doesn’t come up to the mark in a salutation or in any sort of ceremony, when one does not offer his hand quickly enough, why there is no end to the reproaches and complaints. However, I am very happy; although those devilish Girauds have already tried to make people think that I am a cuckold.”

“What! the Girauds have said——”

“That I am a cuckold. Yes, my friend, they have said that! Whereas, she is a woman of the most rigid principle; and moreover, a woman with whom a man can be perfectly at ease. One of those cold, marble women, you know. When you kiss them, it is exactly as if you didn’t kiss them; it produces the same effect.”

“The deuce! that is very comforting!”

“Oh, I promise you that when I am a cuckold, I shall make no objection to its being advertised. But I know why the Girauds say that: it’s from spite because they weren’t at my wedding.”

“I agree with you. But still, I cannot believe that they have ventured to say——”

“Yes, they have. But let me tell you what pretext they have invented for making such remarks. I told you that, before obtaining Armide’s hand, I thrust aside a lot of rivals, among others a marquis who had six decorations.”

“Yes.”

“Well, instead of taking offence, like the others, because I triumphed over him, the marquis came to me and complimented me frankly, and said with charming affability: ‘You have beaten me, and it is quite right; you are a better man than I; I appreciate you and do you justice. Marry Mademoiselle de Beausire, and allow me to continue to be your friend.’—What do you say to that, eh?”

“That was very obliging.”

“As you can imagine, I was touched by that proceeding. I urged the marquis to come to see us, and he did so; in fact, he comes very often. That is the basis for the slanders of the Girauds. When my wife heard of that, being very strict in such matters, she insisted at once that I should ask the marquis to cease his visits; but I showed my strength of character; I said to the marquis: ‘you come every day, try to come twice a day, and I shall be better pleased than ever.’ He does it. And in this respect, at least, my mother-in-law considers that I did well.”

I made no reply, but I laughed to myself. What selfish creatures we are! we laugh at the misfortunes of others and we desire to be pitied for our own misfortunes. At a quarter-past ten, although there was another play to be performed, BÉlan went away to call for his wife. He was afraid that if he stayed any longer, he should be late and be scolded by his mother-in-law, which however did not prevent him, when he bade me good-night, from saying again that he was very happy.