He did not know, he did not understand it, but he was fully decided to make this child his wife.
Her parents hesitated a long time, deterred by the bad reputation of the young man. He had a mistress, it was said—an old mistress, an old and strong entanglement, one of those chains which is believed to be broken, but which continues to hold, nevertheless. In addition, he had loved, for longer or shorter periods, every woman who had come within reach of his lips.
But he turned over a new leaf, and would not even consent to see once more the woman with whom he had lived so long. A friend arranged her pension, assuring her a livelihood. Jacques paid, but he did not wish to hear her name mentioned, pretending henceforth that he did not even know who she was. She wrote letters which he would not open. Every week he recognized the clumsy handwriting of the woman he had abandoned, and every week a greater anger arose in him against her, and he would tear the envelope in two, without opening it, without reading a line, knowing beforehand the reproaches and complaints it would contain.
As there was but little belief in his perseverance, he was put to the test during the whole winter, and it was not until the spring that his suit was accepted.
The marriage took place in Paris during the early part of May. It was decided that they should not go on the usual honeymoon. After a little ball, a dance for her young cousins, which would not last beyond eleven o’clock, and would not prolong forever the fatigue of that day of ceremonies, the young couple intended to pass their first night at the family home and to set out the next morning for the seaside, where they had met and loved.
The night came, and people were dancing in the big drawing room. The newly-married pair had withdrawn into a little Japanese boudoir with bright silk hangings, and scarcely lighted this evening, except by the dim rays from a coloured lantern in the shape of an enormous egg, which hung from the ceiling. The long window was open, allowing at times a fresh breath of air from without to blow upon their faces, for the evening was soft and warm, full of the odour of springtime.
They said nothing, but held each other’s hands, pressing them from time to time with all their force. She was a little dazed by this great change in her life; her eyes were dreaming. She was smiling, deeply moved, ready to weep, often ready to swoon from joy, believing the entire world changed because of what had come to her, a little disturbed without knowing the reason why, and feeling all her body, all her soul, enveloped in an indefinable, delightful lassitude.
He watched her all the time, smiling with a fixed smile. He wished to talk but found nothing to say, and remained quiet, expressing all his ardour in the pressing of her hand. From time to time he murmured “Berthe!” and each time she raised her eyes to his with a sweet and tender look. They would look at each other a moment, then his eyes, fascinated by hers, would fall.
They discovered no ideas to exchange. But they were left alone, except that sometimes a dancing couple would cast a glance at them in passing, a furtive glance, as if it were the discreet and confidential witness of a mystery.
A side door opened, a domestic entered, bearing upon a tray an urgent letter which a messenger had brought. Jacques trembled as he took it, seized with a vague and sudden fear, the mysterious fear of sudden misfortune.
He looked for a long time at the envelope, not knowing the handwriting, nor daring to open it, wishing not to read, not to know the contents, desiring to put it in his pocket and to say to himself: “Tomorrow. Tomorrow, I shall be far away and it will not matter!” But upon the corner were two words underlined: very urgent, which frightened him. “Allow me, my dear,” said he, and he tore off the wrapper. He read the letter, growing frightfully pale, running over it at a glance, and then seeming slowly to spell it out.
When he raised his head his whole countenance was changed. He stammered: “My dear little girl, a great misfortune has happened to my best friend. He needs me immediately, in a matter of—of life and death. Allow me to go for twenty minutes. I will return immediately.”
She, trembling and frightened, murmured: “Go, dear!” not yet being enough of a wife to dare to ask or demand to know anything. And he disappeared. She remained alone, listening to the dance music in the next room.
He had taken the first hat he could find, and an overcoat, and had run down the stairs. As he was going out into the street he stopped under a gaslight in the hall and reread the letter. It said:
“Sir: A girl called Ravet, who appears to be your ex-mistress, has given birth to a child which she asserts is yours. The mother is dying and implores you to visit her. I take the liberty of writing to you to ask whether you will grant the last wish of this woman, who seems to be very unhappy and worthy of pity.
When he entered the room of the dying woman she was already in the last agony. He did not know her at first. The doctor and two nurses were looking after her, and
