Le Cocu Part 16

Madame Giraud walked away from Eugenie with evident displeasure. Eugenie glanced at me with a smile; I had guessed aright the subject of their conversation. The husband and wife met and whispered earnestly together; then they walked toward Madame Dumeillan and surrounded her, one at her right, and the other at her left; she could not escape them. They evidently proposed to try to learn more from Eugenie's mother; but I knew that they would waste their time, that Madame Dumeillan would tell them nothing; she invented an excuse for leaving them after talking a few moments.

Giraud and his wife were very angry. They came toward me again, and I expected that they would hurl epigrams at me and tear me with their claws. I was not mistaken; Madame Giraud began, speaking to her husband so that I should hear:

"It is very amusing, isn't it, Monsieur Giraud?"

"Yes, Madame Giraud, very amusing; there is a great deal of diplomacy here."

"Yes, they make a mystery of something that is everybody's secret."

"Aha! they evidently take us for fools."

"It seems that way to me."

"Wouldn't anyone say that it was a question of uniting two great powers?"

"Perhaps they are afraid they will have to invite us to the wedding."

"Great heaven! weddings! we have no lack of them; in fact, we have so many that it is fairly sickening."

"I declined an invitation to another to-morrow. And there is poor Belan who has already invited us to his, which is to be at Lointier's."

"That young man will make a very good husband. Does he get along all right with Madame de Beausire?"

"Oh, yes! since I went to see the mother-in-law, all the obstacles have disappeared. There are some people who aren't afraid to let me take a hand in their affairs, and who are greatly benefited by it."

"Let us go, Monsieur Giraud; we still have time to go and see our good friends who have that expensive apartment on Rue de la Paix, and whose daughter you found a husband for two months ago."

"You are right; I am sure that they expect us to have a cup of tea."

The husband and wife disappeared without a word to anyone. And those creatures were offended with us because we found it natural and convenient to manage our own affairs! But in society it takes so little to make enemies, especially of narrow-minded people.

The guests began to leave, and I found a moment to talk with Eugenie. I told her that my mother would come to see her the next day. She blushed and sighed as she replied:

"Suppose she doesn't like me? suppose she isn't willing to have me for her daughter?"

Not like her! who could fail to like her? I was not at all disturbed. I rea.s.sured Eugenie, and I left her at last when the clock so ordered, as I had not as yet the right not to leave her at all.

On returning home, I met Ernest coming down from his mistress's room.

Since I had been spending all my time at Madame Dumeillan's, I had sadly neglected my friends of the fifth floor. Ernest reproached me for it mildly, but they were not offended; they knew that I was in love, and thought it quite natural that I should think of no one but my love. But Ernest said to me:

"I hope that you will come to see us sometimes, although Marguerite will soon cease to be your neighbor."

"Is she going to move?"

"In a week. She is not going to live in an attic any longer, thank heaven! Poor child! she has been miserable enough; she has made so many sacrifices for me, that I may well be glad to offer her a pleasanter position at last. Thank heaven! my affairs are prosperous. I have been successful, my friend, and I have made money. I have not squandered it at the cafes or restaurants, because I have always remembered Marguerite, in her attic, poor and dest.i.tute of everything. You see that, whatever my parents may say, it is not always a bad thing to have a poor mistress, for it has made me orderly and economical in good season."

"I see that you are not selfish, and that you are not like many young men of your age, who think that they have done enough for a woman when they have taken her to a theatre and to a restaurant,--pleasures which they share with her,--but who cease to think about her as soon as they have left her at home."

"I have hired a pretty little apartment on Rue du Temple, nearly opposite the baths. That is where we are going to live; I say we, because I hope that before long Marguerite and I shall not be parted. It matters little to me what people say; I propose to be happy, and I shall let evil tongues say what they will."

"You are right, my dear Ernest; happiness is rare enough for a person to make some sacrifices to obtain it. I am going to marry my Eugenie! I have attained the height of my ambition!"

"I might marry Marguerite too; but we are so happy as we are! Why should we change? Besides, we have plenty of time, haven't we? Adieu, my dear Blemont. You will come to see us, won't you?"

"Yes, I promise you that I will."

VIII

MARRIAGE.--A MEETING.--THE BALL

My mother went to see Madame Dumeillan, and they suited each other. It is a miracle when two women of mature years suit each other. My mother found Eugenie very attractive; she complimented me on my choice, and she was very hard to suit, too. I was overjoyed, in ecstasy. The provisions of the contract were very soon arranged by the two ladies, each of whom had but one child. For my part, I hurried forward the wedding day to the best of my ability. And yet, I was very happy. I pa.s.sed three-quarters of my afternoons and all my evenings with Eugenie. If the ladies went out, I escorted them. Our approaching union was no secret, and many young men congratulated me on my good fortune. Some of them sighed as they glanced at Eugenie; perhaps they were in love with her. Poor fellows! I pitied them; but I could do nothing for them.

It was decided that I should retain the apartment which I occupied. It was large enough for my wife, and I had it decorated carefully in accordance with her taste. It would not have been large enough if Madame Dumeillan had come to live with us, as I expected at first. Eugenie too hoped that she would not leave her; but Madame Dumeillan said to her affectionately but firmly:

"No, my child, I shall not live with you. When a man marries, he wishes to take but one wife; why give him two? I know that Henri is fond of me; that he would be glad to have me live with him; but I know also, my children, that a young couple often have a thousand things to say to each other, and that a third person, no matter how dearly loved, is sometimes in the way. In love, in jealousy, in the most trivial disputes, the presence of a third person may be most harmful, and may prolong for a week what need have lasted but a moment; it checks the outpouring of love and intensifies the bitterness of reproach. But I will live near you, and I shall see you often, very often. And whenever you want me, you will always be able to find me."

Eugenie was obliged to yield to her mother, and for my part, I considered that Madame Dumeillan was right.

Should we have a wedding party? That was a question which I asked myself, and which I was tempted more than once to put to Eugenie. But a little reflection convinced me that I should be wrong not to celebrate my marriage. To please me, Eugenie would pretend that she did not care about a ball; but at twenty years of age, possessed of innumerable charms, endowed with all the graces which attract and subjugate, is it not natural for a woman to long to show herself in all the glory of her happiness? Is that not a marked day in her life when she is called madame for the first time, although she has not absolutely ceased to be a maiden; when she has not as yet the a.s.surance of the former, but on the contrary has all the shrinking modesty of the other in an intensified form? Yes, at the age of love and enjoyment, it is essential to have a wedding party; doubly so, when one marries the object of one's pa.s.sion; for happiness is always an embellishment. My Eugenie needed no embellishment; but why should I not have a little vanity? Why should I not be proud of my triumph?

So it was decided that we should have a wedding party: that is to say, a grand breakfast after the ceremony, and in the evening a supper and ball at Lointier's. I determined to look to it that my Eugenie should have magnificent dresses for that great day; not that she could possibly be more beautiful in my eyes, but I wished that she should enjoy all those triumphs which mark an epoch in a woman's life. I gave her leave to be a coquette on that day.

The moment of my happiness drew near. We turned our attention to the list of guests. For the breakfast there would be very few, enough however to make sure that they would not be bored, and that it should not have the aspect of a family party. For the evening, many people were invited; the salons were large, and it was necessary to fill them. We simply tried to make sure that in the throng none of those fine gentlemen should worm themselves in, who are known neither to the groom nor to the bride, nor to their relations, but who boldly present themselves at a large party, where, under cover of their decent exterior, they consume ices and often cheat at ecarte.

We had already written a mult.i.tude of names; I had not forgotten Belan, and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugenie and her mother with a smile, I said to them:

"Shall we put down their names too?"

"I am sure that I know whom you mean!" cried Eugenie. "Henri is thinking of the Giraud family."

"Exactly."

"Why invite them?" asked Madame Dumeillan; "they are terrible bores, and their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying."

"I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their house that I first met Eugenie. And then our invitation will please them so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so."

"Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them."

So Giraud's name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day arrived. I rose at six o'clock in the morning, having slept hardly at all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o'clock, when I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugenie? To read was impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of her--ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure.

I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to breakfast or to pa.s.s the day with me, how impatiently I counted the minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all those things were so soon forgotten!--Ah! I was very happy in those days too!

But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed reading them over; but suppose Eugenie should find them! I determined to burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?

I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them, I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time pa.s.ses amid such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last farewell to bachelorhood.