Le Cocu Part 30

"I tell you to take them away."

I do not know whether the tone in which I said this was terrifying, but the waiter took the sweetbreads and disappeared like a flash, closing all the doors behind him. The chicken was before us. I wondered if madame would not be obliging enough to carve it. I placed it in front of her and begged her to be good enough to do so. She pushed it back to the middle of the table and said:

"I will not carve."

I took up the platter again and handed it to her, saying:

"Madame, you know very well that I am not in the habit of carving."

"You may do as you choose, monsieur."

"Do you refuse to carve it, madame?"

"Yes, monsieur."

"Will you do it--once, twice?"

"No, monsieur."

"In that case, as it is foolish to make the landlord a present of it----"

I took up the dish and threw the chicken out of the window. My wife involuntarily gave a little shriek. I walked to the window, for I noticed that the violin had stopped. I saw that the little Savoyard had just picked up the chicken, and fearing doubtless that someone would come out to get it, he hastily threw his violin over his shoulder, concealed the bird under his jacket, and ran across the Champs-Elysees as if the devil were at his heels.

At that sight I was unable to keep a sober face; I burst into a roar of laughter, which increased in volume when I saw that the little violinist ran faster than ever on seeing me at the window. Madame was unable to resist the desire to see what had become of the chicken. She saw the little fellow's performance, and bit her lips to avoid laughing; but when I turned toward her, she could hold out no longer; she followed my example.

Nothing restores concord so quickly as laughter; disputes rarely take place between laughter-loving people. We had drawn near to each other, having both left the table to go to the window. I do not know how it happened, but I soon found Eugenie in my arms; then we kissed, we walked away from the window, and----

Once more the door was opened, this time without rattling the k.n.o.b. That waiter was fated to do everything awkwardly; he never guessed right!

Eugenie, red as a cherry, hastily moved away from me, but not so quickly that the waiter, who had seen us close together, did not instantly disappear with the macaroni, muttering:

"Beg pardon! you are not ready. Besides, I don't think the cheese is cooked enough."

He closed the door. I ran after Eugenie, who murmured:

"Mon Dieu! what will that waiter think?"

I confess that that question worried me very little, and in a few minutes I think that Eugenie forgot it too.

I had to ring to get the macaroni. The waiter came at last; but he hummed and talked to himself upon the landing before touching the k.n.o.b; then he fumbled over it for five minutes. All the time that he was in the room, my wife kept her eyes down and dared not move or speak. She was not used to such occasions.

I ordered the dessert and the champagne. We ended our dinner much more gaily than the beginning of it would have led one to think. I swore to Eugenie twenty times over that I had ceased to see Lucile long before I had married her. She recovered her amiability; she took nothing but biscuit and champagne, but she declared that it was very pleasant to dine in a private room, and I promised her that we would do it again.

The day following that festivity was our moving day. Eugenie and her maid went early to install themselves in our new apartment, where she wished to have the furniture arranged at the outset according to her own taste. I remained at our old apartment to look after the packing and loading; indeed, I was not sorry to remain as long as possible in my former bachelor's quarters.

The people who were hired to move us had promised that everything should be done at four o'clock; at seven I was still there. Finally, the last load drove away, and I was at liberty to do likewise. I walked once more through those bare rooms, which to me were so rich in memories. It was there that I had entertained so many pretty faces. It was there too that I had brought Eugenie as a bride, and that she had made me a father. What a pity to leave a home where we had been so happy! Should I be as happy elsewhere? But it was time to have done with such childish thoughts. One is certain to be happy anywhere with the object of one's affections; my wife was probably impatient at my non-arrival, so I started.

I reached our new home on Boulevard Montmartre, and the maid admitted me. The last furniture had been brought, but nothing was in place; whereas I expected to find the apartment all arranged and all in order.

What on earth had they been doing ever since morning! I asked the maid, who seemed distressed.

"Dear me, monsieur," she replied, "I did not know where to put all these things."

"What! hasn't my wife been here with you all day?"

"Yes, monsieur, madame has been here. At first she worked hard arranging things; but after a little, as she was moving a piece of furniture----"

"She hurt herself?"

"Oh! no, monsieur; madame did not hurt herself; but she found something, I don't know what, that made her unhappy; she cried, and then she went to her room, and she hasn't touched anything since."

The deuce! so there was something new! I wondered if I ever again should enjoy two days of peace! But only the day before we had been reconciled; and that very morning she had shown no signs of discontent. What on earth could have caused this new outbreak? Asking myself these questions, I went to Eugenie's bedroom. I found her sitting in a chair, but her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be reflecting profoundly. On my arrival, she did not stir.

"What are you doing here, my dear love? It is impossible to find one's way about here, and the maid says that you will not give any orders; what does it mean?"

"It means, monsieur, that you may arrange everything to suit yourself; for my part I will not lift a finger."

"Monsieur! Well, well, so something else has gone wrong. Upon my word, this happens too often. Tell me, what is the matter to-day?"

"Oh! I ought not to be surprised; I ought to be prepared for everything with you. But there are things which I shall never be able to take coolly; and when a woman finds that she is deceived so shamefully----"

"Deceived! come, come! explain yourself, madame, I beg you. What fable has somebody been telling you to-day?"

"No one has been telling me any fables, monsieur. This time I have proofs, undeniable proofs. Do not think that I was looking for them; they fell into my hands by the merest chance. When I was trying to put your desk in place, something broke, the drawer opened and I saw--here, monsieur, this is what I found."

Eugenie opened a drawer and threw upon a table in front of me the eight portraits of women, which I had kept in my desk.

I confess that at sight of them I was speechless for a few moments; but I recovered myself at last.

"Why should the discovery of these portraits offend you? You know very well that I amuse myself by painting a little. When I was a bachelor, I made these miniatures. They are fancy faces, and I saw no harm in keeping them."

"Ah! they are fancy portraits, are they?" cried Eugenie; and she trembled with anger, and her eyes gleamed. "Monster that you are! I expected that reply. You forget that I saw one of the models yesterday!

Look, monsieur, is this a fancy portrait? Oh! the likeness is too good for anyone to mistake it; it is a portrait of that woman who was with you yesterday."

She held out the portrait of Lucile. I had forgotten that it was among those which I had kept; and as it happened, it was one of the best likenesses. I did not know what to say; I was so vexed to appear like a culprit when I had done no wrong, above all, I was so irritated by my wife's reproaches that I threw myself on a chair and said nothing more.

Eugenie pursued me, with Lucile's portrait in her hand.

"You are confounded, monsieur! you cannot think of any more lies to tell; it's a pity, you tell them so well! So this is the woman with whom you have had nothing to do for a long time, whom you don't see now, and whom you never loved! But you have her portrait, you treasure it carefully, with those of seven other women whom you probably meet _by accident_, as you met that creature yesterday! Eight mistresses at once!

I congratulate you, monsieur; you make a most virtuous and orderly husband! And this is the man who swore when he married me that he would never love any woman but me! that I alone would suffice to make him happy! Very well, monsieur, have eight mistresses, have thirty, if you choose, but I will not continue to live with a man who acts so. I no longer love you; I feel that I hate you, that I cannot endure the sight of you. I am going home to my mother. Then, monsieur, you will be free to receive your neighbors and all the women whose portraits you paint."

"Faith, madame, you will do as you choose. For my part, I confess that I am beginning to be tired of your jealous disposition and of your outbreaks, your scenes. This is not the life that I looked forward to when I married. It has ceased to be that pleasant, happy life which was ours at first; and yet, I love you as dearly as ever; I have not ceased for one instant to love you. It is not my fault if you manufacture chimeras, if you detect intrigues in the most innocent things. I have nothing to reproach myself for. If I were guilty, it is probable that I should have taken precautions, and should have found a way to conceal my guilt; but I did nothing wrong in keeping portraits which were painted before I knew you, and which recalled my bachelor studies. It is true that one of them is a portrait of the woman that I met yesterday. In fact, that was what she asked me for, and what I had just promised to send her, when you appeared."

"Not to send her, but to carry to her yourself. I remember perfectly now. Oh! you can't make me believe, monsieur, that that portrait was painted long ago. It is that woman just as I saw her yesterday, while she was shaking hands with you so lovingly. And the idea of your daring to claim to be innocent, when I discover every day fresh proofs of your faithlessness! But you shall not carry her her portrait,--neither hers, nor any other. Look! this is what I do with them! Ah! I wish that I could break the bonds that bind me to you in the same way!"

Eugenie threw the miniatures on the floor; she jumped upon them and ground them to pieces under her feet; I had never seen her in such a frenzy of rage. I said nothing; I kept my seat, and my placidity seemed to intensify her wrath. At last, when she had reduced the ivories to powder, she raised the sleeve of her dress, s.n.a.t.c.hed the bracelet from her arm, in which my portrait was set, and then threw it upon the floor and trampled upon it, crying:

"I will not keep the portrait of a man whom I can no longer love!"

The sight of the destruction of the women's portraits had caused me no emotion; but when I saw Eugenie trample my image under her feet, my image which she had sworn to keep as long as she lived, I felt a sharp pang. A keen, poignant grief suddenly took possession of me. It seemed to me that my happiness had been destroyed like that portrait. I involuntarily started to stop Eugenie; but a feeling of just pride held me back, and I allowed her to consummate the sacrifice.