And I shall have, in all their charm, the divine joy of the first kiss, the first caresses, all the maddening ecstasy of lovers’ discoveries, all the mystery of the unexplored, as desirable the first day as a conquered maidenhood. Oh! the fools who do not understand the adorable sensation of veils raised for the first time! Oh, the fools who marry … since … the said veils … ought not to be raised too often … on the same sight! …
Here comes a woman.
A woman crosses the far end of the corridor, elegant, slender, with a tapering waist.
Damn her, she has a figure, and an air. Let’s try to catch sight of … her face.
She passes near him without seeing him, buried in the depths of the armchair. He murmurs:
Hell, it’s my wife! My wife, or rather not my wife, Chantever’s wife. What a charming hussy she is, after all! …
Am I going to want to marry her again now? … Good, she’s sitting down and she’s reading Gil Blas. I’ll lie low.
My wife! What a queer feeling it gives me! My wife! As a matter of fact, it’s a year, more than a year, since she ceased to be my wife. … Yes, she had her points, physically speaking … very fine ones; what a leg! It makes me tremble only to think of it. And what a bosom, oh, perfect! Ouf! In the old days we used to play at drill, left—right—left—right—what a bosom! Left or right, it was superb.
But what a holy terror … where her morals were concerned!
Has she had lovers? What I suffered from that suspicion! Now, pouf! It doesn’t worry me in the least.
I have never seen a more seductive creature when she was getting into bed. She had a way of jumping up and slipping between the sheets …
Good, I am going to fall in love with her again. …
Suppose I spoke to her? … But what shall I say to her?
And then she would shout for help, because of the thrashing she got. What a thrashing! Perhaps I was a little brutal after all.
Suppose I speak to her? That would be amusing and rather an achievement after all. Damn it, yes, I’ll speak to her, and perhaps if I do it very well … We shall soon see. …
Scene II
| He approaches the young woman, who is deep in the study of Gil Blas, and in a sweet voice: | |
| M. de Garelle | Will you allow me, madame, to recall myself to your memory? |
| Mme. de Chantever lifts her head sharply, cries out, and starts to run away. He bars her way, and says humbly: | |
| M. de Garelle | You have nothing to fear, madame. I am not your husband now. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Oh, you dare! After … after what has happened! |
| M. de Garelle | I dare … and I daren’t. … You see. … Explain it to please yourself. When I caught sight of you, I found it impossible not to come and speak to you. |
| Mme. de Chantever | I hope this joke may now be considered at an end? |
| M. de Garelle | It is not a joke. |
| Mme. de Chantever | A bet, then, unless it’s merely a piece of insolence. Besides, a man who strikes a woman is capable of anything. |
| M. de Garelle | You are hard, madame. It seems to me, however, that you ought not to reproach me today for an outburst that—moreover—I regret. On the contrary, I was, I confess, expecting to be thanked by you. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Astonished. What? You must be mad! Or else you’re making fun of me as if I were a little girl from the country. |
| M. de Garelle | Not at all, madame, and if you don’t understand me, you must be very unhappy. |
| Mme. de Chantever | What do you mean? |
| M. de Garelle | That if you were happy with the man who has taken my place, you would be grateful to me for the violence that allowed you to make this new union. |
| Mme. de Chantever | You are pushing the joke too far, sir. Please leave me alone. |
| M. de Garelle | But, madame, think of it! If I had not committed the infamous crime of striking you, we should still be dragging our chains today. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Wounded. The fact is that you did me a service by your cruelty. |
| M. de Garelle | I did, didn’t I? A service that deserves better than your recent greeting. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Possibly. But your face is so disagreeable to me … |
| M. de Garelle | I will not say the same of yours. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Your compliments are as distasteful to me as your brutalities. |
| M. de Garelle | Well, what am I to do, madame? I have lost the right to beat you: I am compelled to make myself agreeable. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Well, that’s at least frank. But if you want to be really agreeable, you will go away. |
| M. de Garelle | I’m not carrying my wish to please you to those lengths yet. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Then what is it you expect of me? |
| M. de Garelle | To redress my wrongs by admitting that I had wrongs. |
| Mme. de Chantever | Indignant. What? By admitting that you have had them? You must be losing your wits. You thrashed me cruelly and perhaps you consider that you behaved towards me in the most suitable manner possible. |
| M. de Garelle | Perhaps I did! |
| Mme. de Chantever | What? Perhaps you did? |
| M. de Garelle | Yes, madame. You know the comedy called the Mari Cocu, Battu et Content. Very well, was I or was I not a cuckold?—that’s the whole question! In any case, it is you who were beaten, and |
