Le Cocu.

by Charles Paul de k.o.c.k.

PREFACE

BECAUSE OF THE t.i.tLE

I have never written prefaces to my novels; I have always considered what an author says in a preface, what he therein explains beforehand to the reader, as utterly useless. The reader would be ent.i.tled to reply, as Alceste replies to Orontes: "We shall see."

Nor have I ever supposed that the public read a novel in order to talk with its author. It matters little to my readers, I presume, whether I am young or old, short or tall, whether I write in the morning or at night; what they want is a work that pleases them, in which there is enough of truth to enable them to identify themselves with the characters; and if the author constantly talks of himself and stations himself between his heroes and his reader, it seems to me that he destroys the illusion and injures his own work.

My reason for placing a preface at the head of this book has to do with the t.i.tle--that t.i.tle which has caused persons to recoil in dismay who do not balk at _executioners_, _d.a.m.ned_, _tortured_, _guillotined_, and other pleasant conceits in which authors indulge without objection. I propose, not to justify myself, for I do not think myself guilty, but to rea.s.sure some of my readers of the gentler s.e.x, whom my t.i.tle might alarm beyond measure.

_Le Cocu!_ What is there so indecent in the word, pray? In the first place, what does it mean? A married man who is deceived by his wife, a husband whose wife is unfaithful. Would you like me to give my book such a t.i.tle as _The Husband whose Wife was False to Her Vows_? That would resemble a Pontoise poster. Was it not clearer and simpler to take the one word which, alone, means all that?

You might have called it the _Predestined_, someone may say. My answer to that is that that t.i.tle would have been excellent for those who understood it, but that very many people would never have guessed that it meant cuckold; that everybody is not familiar with such conventional language, and that I write to be understood by everybody.

But, after all, why enter upon such a crusade against a word so often and so happily employed on the stage? Who does not know that the immortal Moliere called one of his plays _The Imaginary Cuckold_? I have seen that play acted, and consequently advertised in the streets of Paris, less than three years ago--at a time, however, when we permitted ourselves many fewer liberties than at present; and yet I saw no one draw back with horror or disgust, or indulge in any of these indignant, nervous outbursts on reading the poster of the Theatre-Francais on which the announcement of _The Imaginary Cuckold_ was printed. I think, however, that we should be more strict with respect to what is said on the stage, than with respect to what is put in a novel; for, if I take my daughter to the play, and if the characters make unseemly remarks, I cannot prevent my daughter from hearing them; whereas it is a very easy matter for me to prevent her reading a novel in which such things are expressed.

But I repeat, the word cuckold should raise a laugh, and that is all. Is not that the effect which it produces at the theatre?

"Aye, this is very fine; my children will be gentlemen, but I shall be a cuckold unless I look to it."

(_George Dandin_, Act I.)

"Truly a useful lesson for our neighbor; And if all husbands who live in this town Would thus receive their wives' adorers, The roll of cuckolds would not be so long."

(_L'ecole des Femmes_, Act IV.)

"This popinjay, speaking with all respect, Makes me a cuckold, madame, at his own sweet will."

(_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVI.)

You shall learn, knave, to laugh at our expense, And, lacking due respect, to make men cuckolds.

(_Sganarelle_, Sc. XVII.)

"His heart was seen to burn, Despite us and our teeth, with an illicit flame; And so at last, striving to be convinced, I learned, nor boasted, he had made me cuckold."

(MONTFLEURY, _La Femme Juge et Partie_.)

"What! I myself cast blame and obloquy upon myself!

Myself proclaim the shame of my own wife!

And, although at last I am too well persuaded, Seek witnesses to prove that she has made me cuckold."

(Ibid.)

I know that someone will say: "What was all right long ago may not be right now; other times, other morals."

I will answer: Other times, other customs, other styles of clothes, other hours for meals,--that is all very true; but as to other morals, I refuse to believe it. We have the same pa.s.sions, the same failings, the same absurdities as our fathers. I am fully convinced that we are no better than they; those pa.s.sions and vices may be concealed under more polished forms, but the substance is always the same. Civilization makes men more amiable, more clever in concealing their faults; the progress of knowledge makes them better informed and less credulous. But whereby will you prove to me that it makes them less selfish, less ambitious, less envious, less dissipated? No; the men of to-day are no better than those of an earlier day, or than those who will live a thousand years hence, if men still exist at that time, which I will not a.s.sert, but which may be presumed. Let us not be scandalized to-day by what made our ancestors laugh; let us not make a show of being so strict, so fastidious--for that proves nothing in favor of our virtue. At the theatre respectable mothers of families laugh heartily at a somewhat broad jest, but kept women make wry faces, or hold their fans before their eyes.

Secondly, when authors go so far in what is called the romantic style, why should people be any more rigorous with respect to the jovial style, in regard to pictures of society? Because I describe a contemporaneous scene, must I be on my guard against allowing my pen too free a swing?

Is that privilege reserved exclusively for those who carry us back to past ages, and who array their characters in vast top boots and short cloaks?

While I am addressing my readers, especially those of the fair s.e.x, I cannot resist the temptation to reply to the criticism that has sometimes been made to the effect that I write immoral books.

Books that are merry, that tend to arouse laughter only, may be a little free, without being licentious for that reason. _Although sensuality is dangerous, jests never arouse it._ A work which makes the reader sigh, which excites the imagination, is far more dangerous than one which causes laughter. Those persons who have failed to see the moral purpose of my novels have not chosen to see it. I do not consider it necessary to be morose, in order to offer a lesson or two to one's readers.

Moliere did not chastise the faults and follies of men, and turn their vices into ridicule, with a scowl on his face.

In _Georgette_, I have sketched the life of a kept woman; she ends in a way not likely to attract imitators. In _Brother Jacques_, I have depicted a gambler, and shown to what lengths that horrible pa.s.sion may carry us. In the _Barber of Paris_ two men yield to their respective pa.s.sions, avarice and libertinage. Both are punished wherein they have sinned. _Jean_ proves that a worthily placed pa.s.sion may make us blush for our manners, for our ignorance, and may arouse our disgust of bad company and low resorts. In the _Milkmaid of Montfermeil_, I have tried to prove that money expended in benefactions reaps a better harvest than that squandered in follies. _Andre the Savoyard_ is the story of a poor child of the mountains; by behaving becomingly, by a.s.sisting his mother and brother, by giving all that he owns to his benefactress, he succeeds in being happy and in conquering a hopeless love. _Sister Anne_ is a girl seduced and abandoned. Her seducer, confronted by his mistress and his wife at once, is given a rough lesson. _The Wife, the Husband and the Lover_ presents only too true a picture of the conduct of many married people. _The Natural Man and the Civilized Man_ must demonstrate the advantages of education. If these works have not a moral, it is probably because I was unable to write them with sufficient skill to bring it home to my readers.

But I have said enough, yes, too much, of my novels; and all apropos of this poor _Cocu_! In heaven's name, mesdames, do not let the t.i.tle alarm you. The epigraph of the book must have rea.s.sured you to some slight extent: read on therefore without fear, do not condemn without a hearing. Perhaps you will find this novel less hilarious than you imagine; perhaps indeed you will think that I might have, that I should have presented my hero in quite a different guise. But if this novel, such as it is, does not please you, forgive me, mesdames; I will try to do better in another work; for _Le Cocu_, which I offer you to-day, will not, I trust, be the last that I shall write.

CH. PAUL DE k.o.c.k.

LE COCU

I

A READING ROOM

"Madame, give me the _Const.i.tutionnel_."

"They are all in use at the moment, monsieur."

"Well, then give me the _Courrier Francais_."

"Here's the first sheet of it, monsieur. You shall have the rest in a moment."

"When I read a newspaper, madame, I like to have it whole; with this new fashion of yours, of cutting the paper in two, you sometimes make us wait at the most interesting places, and that is very unpleasant."

"But, monsieur, we can't take ten copies of the same paper! The expenses are big enough already! By cutting the paper, it is easier to accommodate a number of people, and the second sheet of the _Courrier Francais_ will certainly be returned before you have read the first."

"That is not certain. I am not one of those people who spend an hour reading a column. I want a whole paper."

"Will you have the _Debats_?"

"Very well, give me the _Debats_."

The gentleman who insisted upon having a whole newspaper, like the children who insist upon having a dish to themselves at a restaurant, although they often cannot eat half of it, had entered the reading room grumbling; he took his seat upon a bench between two readers, one of whom, a young and courteous man, moved along to make room for him, while the other, who was old and wrinkled, with his hair brushed _a la_ pigeon's wing, glanced crossly at the newcomer and turned his back on him after muttering in a sour tone: