He belonged to a good family, and the young girl was rich. He took her to live in Paris.
She became one of the numerous race of provincials in Paris. She remained ignorant of the great city, of its elegant people, of its pleasures and its customs, as she had always been ignorant of the perfidy and mystery of life.
Shut up in her own household, she only knew the street she lived in, and when she ventured into another quarter, it seemed to her that she had journeyed far, into an unknown, strange city. She would say in the evening:
“I crossed the boulevards today.”
Two or three times a year, her husband took her to the theatre. These were great events not to be forgotten, which she recalled continually.
Sometimes at table, three months afterwards, she would suddenly burst out laughing and exclaim:
“Do you remember that ridiculous actor who imitated the cock’s crowing?”
All her interests were limited to two allied families, who represented the whole of humanity to her. She designated them by the distinguishing prefix “the,” calling them respectively “the Martinets,” or “the Michelints.”
Her husband lived according to his fancy, coming home at whatever hour he wished, sometimes at daybreak, pretending business, and feeling in no way constrained, so sure was he that no suspicion would ruffle this candid soul.
But one morning she received an anonymous letter. She was dismayed, being too upright to understand the infamous accusations, to scorn this letter, whose author declared himself to be moved by interest in her happiness, by hatred of all evil and love of truth.
But it revealed to her that her husband had had a mistress for two years, a young widow, Mme. Rosset, at whose house he spent all his evenings.
She knew neither how to pretend nor to dissimulate, to spy or to plan any sort of ruse. When he returned for luncheon, she threw him the letter, sobbing, and then fled from the room.
He had time to understand the matter and prepare his answer before he rapped at his wife’s door. She opened it immediately, without looking at him. He smiled, sat down, and drew her to his knee. In a sweet voice, and a little jocosely, he said:
“My dear little one, Mme. Rosset is a friend of mine. I have known her for ten years and like her very much. I may add that I know twenty other families of whom I have not spoken to you, knowing that you care nothing for the world or for forming new friendships. But in order to end, once for all, these infamous lies, I will ask you to dress yourself, after luncheon, and we will go to pay a visit to this young lady, who will become your friend at once, I am sure.”
She embraced her husband eagerly; and, from feminine curiosity, which never sleeps once it has been aroused, she did not refuse to go to see this unknown woman, of whom, in spite of everything, she was still suspicious. She felt by instinct that a known danger is sooner overcome.
They were ushered into a pretty little apartment on the fourth floor of a handsome house, full of bric-a-brac and artistically decorated. After about five minutes’ waiting, in a drawing room where the light was dimmed by draperies, hangings, and curtains tastefully arranged, a door opened and a young woman appeared. She was very dark, small, rather plump, and looked astonished, although she smiled. Georges presented them. “My wife, Madame Julie Rosset.”
The young widow uttered a little cry of astonishment and joy, and came forward with both hands extended. She had not hoped for this happiness, she said, knowing that Madame Baron saw no one. But she was so happy! She was so fond of Georges! (She said “Georges” quite naturally, with sisterly familiarity.) And she had had a great desire to know his young wife, and to love her, too.
At the end of a month these two friends were never apart from each other. They met every day, often twice a day, and nearly always dined together, either at one house or at the other. Georges scarcely ever went out now, no longer alleging business engagements, but he said he loved his own chimney corner.
And when finally an apartment was vacant in the house where Madame Rosset resided, Madame Baron hastened to take it in order to be nearer her new friend.
During two whole years there was a friendship between them without a cloud, a friendship of heart and soul, absolute, tender, devoted, and delightful. Berthe could not speak without mentioning Julie’s name, for to her Julie represented perfection. She was happy with a perfect happiness, calm and secure.
But Madame Rosset fell ill. Berthe never left her. She passed nights of despair; her husband, too, was brokenhearted.
One morning, on coming out from his visit the doctor took Georges and his wife aside, and announced that he found the condition of their friend very grave.
When he had gone out, the young people, stricken down, looked at each other and then began to weep. They both watched at night by the bedside. Every moment Berthe would embrace the sick woman tenderly, while Georges, standing silently at the foot of her couch, would look at them with dogged persistence. The next day she was worse.
Finally, toward evening, she declared herself better, and persuaded her friends to go home to dinner.
They were sitting sadly at table, scarcely eating anything, when the maid brought Georges an envelope. He opened it, turned pale, and rising, said to his wife, in a constrained way: “Excuse me, I must leave you for a moment. I will return in ten minutes. Please don’t go out.” And he ran into his room for his hat.
Berthe waited, tortured by a new fear. But, yielding in all things, she would not go up to her friend’s room again until he had returned.
As he did not reappear, the thought came to her to look in his room to see whether
