Finally one nice morning we took possession of our apartment on the Rue de Balzac. … It was high time we did. … All this unsettled existence, this continuous hurry, these open trunks yawning like coffins, this brutal scattering of dear and intimate things, these heaps of linen, these pyramids of boxes turned upside down, these cut-up pieces of string which dragged all over, all this disorder, this chaos, this trampling underfoot of things with which are associated the dearest memories or most tender regrets, and above all this feeling of uncertainty, of terror, and the sad reflections which the act of leaving a place occasions—all this made me uneasy, dejected and, must I say it, remorseful.
While Juliette was moving about, bustling amidst bundles, I was asking myself whether I had not committed some irreparable folly. Of course, I loved her. … Ah! I loved her with all the power of my soul. So far, nothing except this passion which obsessed me more and more every day, interested me at all. Still, I regretted that I had yielded so easily and quickly to an infatuation that was perhaps fraught with the gravest consequences for her and myself. I was dissatisfied with myself for not having been able to resist Juliette’s wish, expressed in such delicious fashion, that I live together with her. … Could we not love each other just as well if each of us lived separately and avoid the possible clashes over such sordid things as wallpaper, for example.
And while the splendor of all this plush and the insolence of all these gilt objects in the midst of which we were now going to live frightened me, I felt a sorrowful attachment for my own scanty furniture placed without order, for my little apartment, austere yet tranquil, and now empty—an attachment one has for beloved things that are dead. But Juliette would pass by, busy, agile and charming, would embrace and kiss me on her way, and there was such a life-giving joy in her whole being, a joy so easily mingled with astonishment and childish despair at anything lost, that my morose thoughts vanished as do the night owls at sunrise.
Ah! the happy days that followed our moving from the Rue Saint Petersbourg! … First we had to test every piece of furniture down to the smallest details. Juliette sat on every divan, lounge and sofa, causing the springs to creak.
“You try it also, my dear,” she would say to me. She examined every piece of furniture, scrutinized the hangings, tried the strings of the door curtain, moved a chair to a different place, smoothed a crease in the draperies. And every instant cries of admiration, of ecstasy were heard!
Then she wanted to start the inspection of the apartment all over again with the windows closed and the lights burning, in order to see the effect produced at night, never tiring of examining a thing more than once, running from one room to another, marking down every defect on a piece of paper. Then it was the wardrobe where she put her linen and mine with meticulous care and elaborate nicety and the consummate skill of a stall keeper. I chided her for assigning to me the better scentbags.
“No! no! no! I want to have a little husband who uses perfume!”
Of her old furniture and old knickknacks, Juliette had kept only the terra cotta statue of Love which again took its place of honor on the mantelpiece in the parlor. I, on the other hand, had brought over only my books and two very beautiful sketches by Lirat which I thought it a duty to hang up in my study. Scandalized, Juliette cried with indignation:
“What are you doing there, my dear? … Such horrible things in our new apartment! … Please put these horrible things away somewhere! Oh, put them away!”
“My dear Juliette,” I answered somewhat provoked. “You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?”
“Certainly I have. … But what has that to do with this? … My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there … why really! … And then it’s improper! … Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach.”
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere. … Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
“Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!”
And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured:
“Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it! … How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest! …”
The next morning Juliette said to me:
“It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don’t want him to think that I keep you from visiting him.”
It was true, nevertheless. It really seemed as if for the last five months, I had forgotten all about poor Lirat. But had I really forgotten him? Alas no! … Shame kept me from going to him. … Shame alone estranged me from him. … I assure you that I would have never hesitated to announce to the whole world: “I
