For more than a month packages and strange cases were being delivered to us every evening. … Dresses followed dresses, hats followed cloaks, umbrellas and embroidered chemises; the most expensive linens accumulated in heaps and filled all the drawers, presses, wardrobes.
“You see, my dear,” Juliette explained to me, discerning amazement in my glance. “You see I did not have anything. … This is all I need. From now on, all I’ll have to do is to receive people. … Ah don’t be afraid! … I am very economical. See here, I have had a high body made in all my gowns for everyday use on the street, and a décolleté to wear at the Opera! Just figure out how many dresses that will save me. … One … two … three … four … five … dresses, my dear! … You see now!”
For the first appearance at the theatre she put on a gown that was the sensation of the evening. As long as the tormenting affair lasted I was the most miserable man in the world. … I felt the covetous glances of the entire audience directed on Juliette, glances that devoured her, that disrobed her, glances that defile the woman one adores. I would have liked to hide Juliette deep in the loge and throw a thick dark woolen cloak on her shoulders, and with heart clawed by hatred I wished the theatre had sunk into the ground through some sudden cataclysm, that by a sudden collapse of its ceiling and chandeliers it had crushed to a powder all these men, each of whom was stealing a little of Juliette’s chastity, a little of her love from me. She, on the other hand, triumphant, seemed to say: “I love you all, gentlemen, for thinking me beautiful. You are nice people.”
Scarcely did we enter our house when I drew Juliette toward me and for a long, long time held her pressed to my heart, repeating without end: “You love me, Juliette, don’t you?” but the heart of Juliette was no longer listening to me. Seeing that I was sad, noticing that from my eyelids tears were about to fall upon her cheek, she freed herself from my embrace and said somewhat angrily:
“What! I was the prettiest, the most beautiful of them all! … And you are not satisfied yet? … And you are crying yet! … That is not nice at all! … What more do you want?”
Our first disagreeable quarrel arose over Juliette’s friends. Gabrielle Bernier, Jesselin and some other people, formerly brought over to our house at the Rue de Saint Petersbourg by Malterre, again began to pursue us at the Rue de Balzac. I frankly told her so; she seemed very much surprised.
“What have you against Monsieur Jesselin?” she asked me. She used to call the others by their Christian names … but she pronounced the name Monsieur Jesselin with great respect.
“I certainly have nothing against him, my dear. … But I don’t like him, he gets on my nerves … he is ridiculous. Here, then, I think are good reasons for not wishing to see that idiot.”
Juliette was shocked. That I should have called a man of Monsieur Jesselin’s importance and reputation an idiot was quite incomprehensible to her. She looked at me with fear as if I had just uttered a terrible blasphemy.
“Monsieur Jesselin, an idiot! … He … such a gentleman, so serious minded, and who has been to India! … Don’t you know that he is a member of the Geographical Society?”
“What about Gabrielle Bernier? … Is she also a member of the Geographical Society?”
As a rule Juliette never lost her temper. When she was angry her look became severe, the wrinkle on her forehead deepened, her voice lost a little of its sweet sonorousness. She answered simply:
“Gabrielle is my friend.”
“That’s just what I object to.”
There was a moment of silence. Juliette, seated in an armchair, was fingering the lace of her morning gown, thinking. An ironic smile wandered on her lips.
“Do you mean to say that I must not see anyone? … Is that what you want? … Well that’s going to be very amusing. … We shall never go out anymore … we shall live like beasts! …”
“That’s not the question at all, my dear. … I have some friends. … I’ll ask them to come. …”
“Oh yes, I know your friends. … I can see them right before me, writers, painters … people whom one doesn’t understand when they talk … and who borrow money from us. … Thank you very much! …”
I felt offended and quickly replied:
“My friends are honest people, do you hear, with talent, whereas that idiot and that nasty woman! …”
“I think we have had enough of this,” Juliette imperiously said. “Is that your wish? … All right. I shall close my door to them. Only when you insisted on my living with you, you should have told me that you wanted to bury me alive. I would have known what to do then. …”
She rose. I was not even thinking of telling her that, on the contrary, it was she who had wished that we keep house together. Realizing that it was useless to argue any further I took her hand:
“Juliette,” I entreated her.
“Well, what do you want?”
“Are you angry?”
“I, on the contrary, I am very much contented. …”
“Juliette!”
“Come, let go of me … quit … you hurt me.”
Juliette was sulky all day; when I said something to her she did not answer or contented herself with articulating monosyllables curtly and with irritation. I was unhappy and angry at the same time; I would have liked to embrace her and to beat her, to shower kisses and kicks on her. At dinner she still kept the air of an offended woman, with her lips firmly closed and a disdainful look in her eyes. In vain did I try to appease her by humble conduct and
