"And another time she came to ask about her dog, I suppose?"

I made no reply, for I felt that I should lose my temper, and in such a case it is wiser to hold one's tongue. Eugenie saw perhaps that she had gone too far, for after a moment she said to me gently:

"We shall have to move anyway when our daughter returns from her nurse's; this apartment will be too small then. Why should we wait?"

"This apartment suits me, madame, and I propose to remain here."

I was not in the habit of resisting my wife; but her suspicions concerning my friendship with Madame Ernest made me angry, and it annoyed me to think of leaving my apartment.

Eugenie did not insist; for several days we were on cool terms, and the question of apartments was not mentioned. I saw plainly enough that my wife longed to speak of it, but she dared not. At last I reflected that, after all, the neighbors and concierges and gossips might well have made remarks; such people care for nothing except slandering their neighbors.

They had seen me go up to the young woman's room and they might have thought that Ernest was not there.

Why should I force my wife to listen forever to the insinuations of those people? The apartment was distasteful to her. Besides, one must needs do something in order to have peace. Peace! ah, yes! I was beginning to realize that peace is a precious thing, which does not always dwell in families.

"If you will dress at once," I said to Eugenie one morning, "we will go together to look at apartments."

At that she threw herself into my arms and kissed me affectionately; she had recovered all her sunny humor of earlier days. To make the ladies amiable, all that is necessary is to do everything that they want.

XI

A SCENE

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 Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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, Eugenie 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.

Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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 gra.s.s 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. Eugenie and I sat close together. My cloak, which was very large, was wrapped around us both; we tried in every way to keep warm. Eugenie sat on my knee and drove; I made no objection; it was almost dark. Suddenly the horse stopped, and Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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 embarra.s.sed. I dared not ask Ernest about his wife, for I was certain that Eugenie 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?" Eugenie 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."

Eugenie 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 Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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. Eugenie 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.

Eugenie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and betook myself to my study. I pa.s.sed 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, Eugenie? Why are you crying? What is it that causes your sorrow?"

"You, monsieur."