“We were soon engaged and I told her of my plans for the future, of which she disapproved. She did not believe in me as a poet, novelist, or dramatic author, and thought that trade, if successful, could procure perfect happiness. So I gave up the idea of writing books, I resigned myself to selling them and bought a book shop—the Universal Library—at Marseilles, its former owner being dead.
“I had three good years. We had made our shop into a kind of literary salon where all the cultured men in the town met for conversation. They came to the shop as they would have gone to a club, and discussed books, poets, and more especially politics. My wife, who was the head of the sales department, was very popular in the town; as for me, while they were all talking downstairs I was at work in my study on the first floor which communicated with the shop by a winding staircase. I heard voices, laughter, discussions, and sometimes stopped writing to listen to what was going on. I was secretly writing a novel—which I never finished.
“The most regular frequenters were Monsieur Montina, a man of private means, a tall, handsome type of man, often met with in the South, with black hair and eyes full of flattery; Monsieur Barbet, a magistrate; two business men, Messieurs Faucil and Labarrègue; and General the Marquis de Flèche, head of the Royalist party, the most important man in the province, aged sixty-six.
“Business was good and I was happy, very happy. However, one day about three o’clock I was obliged to go out and when I was in the Rue Saint-Ferréol I saw a woman come out of a house whose figure was so like my wife’s that I would have said to myself ‘It is she’ had I not left her ill at home.
“She was walking ahead of me very quickly, and never looking back; in spite of myself I started to follow her with a feeling of surprise and uneasiness. I said to myself:
“ ‘It is not she. No. That’s impossible, as she had a headache. Besides, what would she be doing in that house?’
“Still I wanted to clear the matter up, so hurried after her. Whether she felt or guessed I was behind her or whether she recognised my step, I can’t say, but she turned round suddenly. It was she! When she saw me she blushed and stopped, then said with a smile: ‘Halloa, is it you?’
“I felt sick at heart and said: ‘Yes. So you did go out? And your headache?’
“ ‘It was better. I have been on an errand.’
“ ‘Where to?’
“ ‘To Laussade’s, in the Rue Cassinelli, to order some pencils.’
“She looked me full in the face. She was not blushing now, on the contrary, she was rather pale. Her clear, limpid eyes—ah! a woman’s eyes!—seemed full of truth, but I had a vague, painful feeling that they were full of lies. I was more worried, more uncomfortable than she was, I dared not suspect her, and yet I felt sure she was telling me a lie. Why was she doing it? I had no idea, so I merely said: ‘You were quite right to go out if you felt better.’
“ ‘Yes. I felt much better.’
“ ‘Are you going home?’
“ ‘Of course I am.’
“I left her and wandered about the streets alone. What was going on? While I was talking to her I knew instinctively that she was lying, but now I could not believe it, and when I went home to dinner I was angry with myself for having suspected her, even for a moment.
“Have you ever been jealous? Whether you have or not makes no difference. The first hot breath of jealousy had touched my heart. I could think of no explanation, I could not believe anything. I only knew that she had lied. You must remember that every evening when we were alone together, after all the customers and the clerks had left, either when strolling down towards the port in fine weather, or else in my study when the weather was bad, I opened my heart to her without reserve, for I loved her. She was part of my life, the greater part, and all my happiness, and in her little hands she held captive my poor trusting, faithful heart.
“In the early days of doubt and distress before suspicion grew into a certainty I was depressed and cold to the marrow, just as you feel before a serious illness. I was always cold, really cold, and could neither eat nor sleep.
“Why had she lied to me? What was she doing in that house? I had been there to try and find out, but without success. The man who lived on the first floor, an upholsterer, told me all about his neighbours but without giving me any clue. A midwife lived on the second floor, a dressmaker and a manicure on the third, and two cabmen with their families in the attics.
“Why had she lied to me? It would have been so easy to say that she was coming from the dressmaker’s or the manicure’s. Oh! how I longed to ask them questions, too. I did not for fear she might be warned, and guess my suspicions.
“One thing was certain, she had been to the house and was concealing the fact from me, so that there was some mystery. But what? At times I thought there must be
