Le Cocu Part 17

I set them afire, not without a faint sigh. At last my bachelor amours were burned, and only a pinch of ashes remained; some day nothing more will remain of all the riches, of all the marvels of this earth.

Those were very serious thoughts for a wedding day, but they served to pa.s.s the time, and that was something. Moreover, extremes always meet: the happier one is, the more disposed is one's mind to melancholy thoughts. A grocer weighing sugar, or a postman delivering letters, does not feel such impressions.

But I almost forgot something else; for since I had thought of nothing but Eugenie from morning until night, it was not surprising that I had not set all my affairs in order. I had once amused myself by painting miniatures of some of the ladies whose letters I had just burned. Those portraits were in the desk upon which I painted; there were eight of them.

Should I sacrifice them as well? It would have been a pity; not because of the models, but because the miniatures were really not bad. Why destroy them? In the first place, Eugenie would never see them; and even if she should see them, they were fancy portraits. When one paints from life, one must necessarily paint portraits. So I had mercy upon those ladies, and replaced their pretty faces in the depths of the desk, whence I thought that they would never come forth.

Now I had carefully scrutinized and examined everything; nothing was left which could possibly offend Eugenie's eye. No, she could come there now and reign as mistress; thenceforth no other woman should enter those rooms than such as she should choose to receive.

It was time to think about dressing. I thought it would do no harm if I were at my mother's a little before the hour. If only the carriages did not keep me waiting. But someone entered my room; it was my concierge and his wife, with a big bouquet. Did they think I was going to put it in my b.u.t.tonhole?

The husband came forward with an affable expression and was about to speak, but his wife did not give him time.

"Monsieur," she said, "this is your wedding day; we are very glad to be able to congratulate you on such a happy day, by offering you this bouquet and our compliments; these immortelles are the symbol of your happiness, which will last forever."

While his wife glibly delivered this speech, the concierge tried to slip in a few words, but he did not succeed. I took the bouquet, gave them some money and dismissed them. A wedding day would have little charm if one must submit to many congratulations of that sort. At last a carriage arrived. I went downstairs and pa.s.sed rapidly before a long line of cooks and some gossiping old women who lived in the house, who were stationed in the courtyard to see me, as if a man who was going to be married had his nose placed otherwise than usual on that day.

I was driven to my mother's, and found that she had just begun to dress.

"It isn't eleven o'clock yet," she said; "we have plenty of time; go and read the newspaper."

Read the newspaper! just at the moment that I was to be married! I, who could not read one through when I had nothing to do! No, I preferred to remain there, and each five minutes I knocked at the door of her dressing-room to enquire if she were ready.

At a quarter-past eleven I carried my mother off, I almost dragged her away, although she declared that her bonnet was on crooked and that she wanted to have the ribbons changed. I refused to listen, we entered the carriage, and I swore to my mother that her headgear was in perfect order; she became calmer and consented to be amiable once more.

We arrived at Madame Dumeillan's. Eugenie was ready; I was confident that she would not keep me waiting, that she would have pity on my impatience. Her dress was charming, according to all the people who were there; for my part, I did not notice her dress, I saw only her, and I should have thought her a thousand times lovelier if it had been possible.

One of our witnesses kept us waiting. There are people who would not hurry one iota to please others, and who know of nothing in the world that is important enough for haste. I could not live with such people.

At last the tardy witness arrived and we started for the mayor's office.

I was not allowed to escort Eugenie. On that day everything was subordinate to ceremony; a man must be happier on the day after his wedding than on his wedding day.

I have never cared much for ceremonial, and that of my marriage seemed extremely long. To give me courage, I looked at my wife; she was more impressed than I by the solemnity of the moment; she was deeply moved and was weeping. Dear Eugenie! I thought of nothing but loving her forever, and it was certainly not necessary for anyone to order me to do it.

It came to an end at last. We returned to the carriages, still in procession, and through a crowd of curious folk who devoured us with their eyes. I felt more buoyant, happier. I was so glad that it was over!

I spied Giraud and his wife at the church, in full array; they had offered us congratulations which I had not listened to; but I had said to them: "until this evening;" and they replied with a low bow.

We drove to Lointier's, where a handsome breakfast awaited us. But a wedding breakfast is generally a decidedly gloomy affair. The bride can hardly be expected to laugh, and even when she is happiest, she is thoughtful and talks little; the grandparents are always intent upon preserving their dignity. For my part, I was engrossed, or rather annoyed, by the reflection that it was still early in the day. There were in the party some jokers, or persons who tried to joke; one stout gentleman, a kinsman of my mother, regaled us with some of those superannuated jests concerning the occasion and happiness that awaited us; but his sallies met with no success; n.o.body laughed at them, and he was forced to keep to himself the ample store of _bons mots_ with which I am sure that he was provided. I was delighted, because I considered such jests very bad form; they should be left for the weddings of concierges or servants; the modesty of a young woman who has but one day of innocence left should be respected; and we should a.s.sume innocence in those who have none.

Eugenie and I were at a distance from each other; we could not talk, but we glanced furtively at each other and our eyes mutually counselled patience.

The clock struck five, and the ladies left to change their dresses. I escorted my wife to the carriage which was to take her home with her mother. I would have been glad to go with her, but Madame Dumeillan and my mother persuaded me that it was my duty to remain with the guests who were still at table. Eugenie leaned toward me and whispered in my ear:

"Oh! we shall be much happier to-morrow, my dear! we shall not be separated then, I trust."

Dear Eugenie, you were quite right. I had to return to the table, because it pleased some of our guests to eat and drink through four hours. If only I had been hungry!

We left the table at last, at six o'clock. Several of the gentlemen began to play cards. As courtesy did not require me to watch them lose their money, I left the restaurant and drove to my wife's house.

The hairdresser had just arrived, and she had abandoned her lovely hair to him. Really, those hairdressers are too fortunate, to be able to pa.s.s their fingers through those lovely locks and to gaze constantly at the pretty head which is entrusted to them. That one took at least three-quarters of an hour to arrange Eugenie's hair, as if it were difficult to make her look charming! But women are wonderfully patient with respect to everything that pertains to their toilet.

Her hair was arranged at last; but they took her away, for she was not dressed. My wife was not yet mine; she was still in the grasp of the conventionalities of that day. I was fain to be patient, until I once had possession of her. But that night I would bolt all the doors, and no one should see her the next morning until I chose.

I saw that Eugenie would not be dressed for at least an hour, so I went out and tried to kill time. I jumped into one of the carriages which were waiting at the door, and was driven to the Tuileries. I alighted on Rue de Rivoli, and entered the garden. The day was drawing to a close; the weather was gloomy and uncertain. There were very few people under those superb chestnuts toward which I walked. I was delighted, for I do not care for a promenade where there is a crowd; the people who stare at you or jostle you every moment prevent you from dreaming, from thinking at your leisure.

I rarely went to the Tuileries; to my mind that great garden was melancholy and monotonous; but on that day it seemed pleasanter to me, for I could think freely of my wife. My wife! those words still had a strange sound to me. I was married, I who had so often laughed at husbands! Had I been wrong to laugh at them, or should I prove an exception to the rule?

I walked at random. Finally I found myself in front of the enclosure where the statues of Hippomenes and Atalanta stand. That reminded me of a certain a.s.signation. It was three years before, in the middle of winter. There had been a heavy fall of snow; the garden, the benches were covered with it, and it was very cold. But I had an a.s.signation, and on such occasions one does not consult the thermometer. It was with a certain Lucile, who, for decency's sake, called herself Madame Lejeune, and who mended cashmere shawls. She was very pretty, was Lucile. About twenty-three years old at that time, with a pretty, shapely figure, and an almost distinguished face which did not betray the grisette. I had an idea that her portrait was among those that I had preserved. She was accustomed to love madly for a fortnight; during the third week she calmed down, and ordinarily she was unfaithful by the end of the month. As I had been warned, I considered it more amusing to antic.i.p.ate her, and to take up with another before the fortnight had expired. She did not forgive me; her self-esteem was wounded, for I have no idea that she would have been more constant with me than with others; but she tried to make me believe that she would have, and whenever I met her I could always detect a flavor of bitterness in her speech and anger in her glance.

It was in front of that enclosure, close by those statues, that we had arranged to meet. I remembered that Lucile was there before me, despite the extreme cold. We had not known each other four days, and we adored each other. She did not reprove me for keeping her waiting, and yet her nose and chin were purple with cold, and her fingers were stiff; but her eyes burned. I put her into a cab and took her to dine at Pelletan's, at the Pavillon-Francais. It was one of the red-letter days of my bachelorhood.

Very good, but the whole business was not worth one smile from Eugenie.

I was about to turn away from Atalanta, when I saw within a few feet of me a lady dressed with some elegance, who was looking at me with a smile on her lips.

"You must admit," she said, "that the snow is all that is needed to make the resemblance complete."

It was Lucile! What a strange chance! I walked toward her.

"You here, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur; and I beg you to believe that I have not come here in search of memories."

"I am here, madame, by the merest chance. But, as I pa.s.sed these statues, I remembered a certain a.s.signation, one winter, and I confess that I was thinking of you."

"Really! Ah! that is most flattering on your part! You have to come to the Tuileries to do that, do you not, monsieur?"

"If that were so, madame, you must admit that other men devote their thoughts to you. One aspirant more or less--you can hardly detect the difference."

"Ah! your remarks are exceedingly polite! But I am not surprised: you have never been anything but agreeable to me! You are the same as ever!"

"I do not see that I have said anything to you that----"

"Oh! mon Dieu! let us drop the subject. You might conclude that I attach great value to memories of you, and you would be much mistaken. But how fine you are! Are you going to a wedding?"

"Just so; I have been one of a wedding party since morning, and I came here for a walk while the bride is dressing herself for the ball."

"Oho! you are a wedding guest to-day! Is the bride pretty?"

"Lovely."

"A widow or unmarried?"

"Unmarried."

"How old?"

"Twenty years."