So that poor fellow must be a deceived husband, too, like so many others. He had said wistfully: “She sometimes seems to feel more at home and intimate with our friends than with me.” It showed how a husband—the blind sentiment that the law calls a husband—formulated his reflections on the particular attentions his wife shows another man. That was all. He had seen nothing more. He was like all the rest. … All the rest!
His own wife, too, had laughed at him, Bondel, laughed strangely: “You too … you too.” The mad imprudence of these creatures who could put such suspicions into a man’s heart for sheer pleasure in defying him!
He went back in thought over their life together, trying to remember whether, in their former relationship, she had ever seemed more at home and intimate with anyone else than with him. He had never suspected anyone, so placid he had been, sure of her, trustful. Yes, she had had a friend, an intimate friend, who for almost a whole year had dined with them three times a week, Tancret, good honest Tancret, whom he, Bondel, loved like a brother, and whom he continued to see in secret since the time when his wife for some unexplained reason had fallen out with the pleasant fellow.
He stood still to think about it, staring into the past with uneasy eyes. Then he suffered an inward revulsion against himself, against this shameful insinuation put forward by the defiant, jealous, malicious self that lies buried in all of us. He blamed himself, accused and insulted himself, even while he was recalling all the visits and the behaviour of this friend whom his wife had valued so highly and had expelled for no grave reason. But abruptly other memories came to him, of similar ruptures due to the vindictive nature of Mme. Bondel, who never forgave an affront. Thereupon he laughed frankly at himself, and at the pricks of anguish that had assailed him; and remembering his wife’s malignant expression when on his return in the evenings he remarked to her: “I met old Tancret, and he asked me for news of you,” he was completely reassured.
She always replied: “When you see the gentleman, you can tell him that I do not trouble to concern myself with him.” Oh, with what an air of irritation and vindictive fury she used to utter these words! How obvious it was that she did not forgive, would not forgive! … And he had found it possible to suspect? even for a second? God, what a fool he was!
But why was she so vindictive? She had never told him the exact starting-point of this quarrel, and the reason for her resentment. She owed him a rare grudge, a rare grudge! Could it be? … But no—no. … And Bondel declared that he was degrading himself by thinking of such things.
Yes, there was not the least doubt that he was degrading himself, but he could not refrain from thinking about it, and he asked himself in terror whether this thought that had come into his mind was not going to stay there, whether in this thought he had not admitted to his heart the germ of an abiding torture. He knew himself: he was the sort of man who would brood over his doubt, as he had formerly brooded over his commercial transactions for days and nights, weighing pros and cons, interminably.
Already he was becoming agitated, he was quickening his step and losing his peace of mind. No one can fight against Thought. It is impregnable, it can neither be cast out nor killed.
And abruptly he conceived a plan, an audacious plan, so audacious that he doubted at first whether he could carry it out.
Each time that he met Tancret, the latter demanded news of Mme. Bondel; and Bondel answered: “She’s still a little annoyed.” That was all. God! … had he himself been the typical husband! Perhaps. …
So he would take the train to Paris, go and see Tancret, and bring him home with him this very evening, assuring him that his wife’s inexplicable resentment was over. Yes, but what a state Mme. Bondel would be in … what a scene! what fury! … what a scandal! So much the worse, so much the worse … that would be a rare revenge, and seeing them suddenly face to face, she altogether unprepared, he would easily be able to read the truth in the emotions written on their faces.
III
He went at once to the station, took his ticket, climbed into a carriage and when he felt himself being swept along by the train which was running down hill at Pecq, he felt a stab of fear, a sort of giddiness at the thought of his audacity. To keep himself from weakening, from backing out of it and returning alone, he strove to give up thinking about it any more, to seek distraction in other thoughts, to do what he had planned to do with a blind determination, and he set himself to hum songs from the operettas and the music-halls all the way to Paris in order to stifle his thoughts.
He became the prey of impulses to withdraw from the affair as soon as he had in front of him the pavements that would lead him to Tancret’s street. He loitered in front of several shops, priced some of the things, took an interest in various new things, was seized with a desire to drink a bock, which was hardly one of his habits, and as he approached his friend’s house, he felt the strongest possible wish not to meet him.
But Tancret was at home, alone, reading. He was surprised, jumped up, cried:
“Ah! Bondel! What luck!”
And Bondel, embarrassed, answered:
“Yes, old man, I came to do a little business in Paris and I came along to shake you by the hand.”
“That’s
