“Fortunately Pauline is intelligent.”
He prolonged his “ye-e-s” till it turned into a query; then:
“But still there are things she doesn’t understand. However intelligent a woman may be, you know. … Still, I must admit that in the circumstances I didn’t manage very cleverly. I began telling her about a little affair of mine at a time when I thought—when I was absolutely convinced—that it wouldn’t go any further. It did go further … and Pauline’s suspicions too. It was a mistake to put her on the ‘qui vive,’ as people say. I have been obliged to hide things from her—to tell lies. … That’s what comes of not holding one’s tongue to begin with. It’s not my fault. I’m naturally confiding. … But Pauline’s jealousy is alarming. You can’t imagine how careful I have had to be.”
“Was it long ago?” I asked.
“Oh, it’s been going on for about five years now; and I flatter myself I had completely reassured her. But now the whole thing has to begin all over again. What do you think! When I got back home the day before yesterday. … Suppose we order another bottle of Pommard, eh?”
“Not for me, please.”
“Perhaps I could have a half bottle. I’ll go home and take a little nap after lunch. I feel this heat so. … Well, I was telling you that the day before yesterday, when I got back, I went to my writing desk to put some papers away. I pulled open the drawer where I had hidden … the person in question’s letters. Imagine my stupefaction, my dear fellow; the drawer was empty! Deuce take it! I see exactly what has happened; about a fortnight ago, Pauline came up to Paris with George, to go to the wedding of the daughter of one of my colleagues. I wasn’t able to attend it myself; I was away in Holland. … And besides, functions of that kind are women’s business. Well, there she was, with nothing to do, in an empty flat; under pretence of putting things straight … you know what women are like—always rather curious … she began nosing about … oh! intending no ill—I’m not blaming her. But Pauline has always had a perfect mania for tidying. … Well, what on earth am I to say to her, now that she’s got all the proofs? If only the silly little thing didn’t call me by my Christian name! Such a united couple! When I think what I’m in for! …”
The poor man stuck in the slough of his confidences. He dabbed his forehead—fanned himself. I had drunk much less than he. The heart does not furnish compassion at command; I merely felt disgust for him. I could put up with him as the father of a family (though it was painful to me to think that he was Olivier’s father), as a respectable, honest, retired bourgeois; but as a man in love, I could only imagine him ridiculous. I was especially made uncomfortable by the clumsiness and triviality of his words, of his pantomime; neither his face nor his voice seemed suited to the feelings he expressed; it was like a double bass trying to produce the effects of an alto; his instrument brought out nothing but squeaks.
“You said that she had George with her. …”
“Yes; she didn’t want to leave him at the seaside alone. But naturally in Paris he wasn’t in her pocket the whole time. … Why, my dear fellow, in twenty-six years of married life I have never had the smallest scene, the slightest altercation. … When I think of what’s in store for me! … for Pauline’s coming back in two days. … Oh! I say, let’s talk of something else. Well, what do you think of Vincent? The Prince of Monaco—a cruise. … By Jove! … What! didn’t you know? … Yes; he has gone out in charge of soundings and deep-sea fishing near the Azores. Ah! there’s no need to be anxious about him, I assure you. He’ll make his way all right, without help from anyone.”
“His health?”
“Completely restored. With his intelligence, I think he is on the high road to becoming famous. The Comte de Passavant made no bones about saying that he considered him one of the most remarkable men he ever met. He even said ‘the most remarkable’ … but one must make allowances for exaggeration.”
The meal was finished; he lit a cigar.
“May I ask you,” he went on, “who the friend is who gave you news of Olivier? I must tell you that I attach particular importance to the company my children keep. I consider that it’s a thing it’s impossible to pay too much attention to. My sons fortunately have a natural tendency to make friends with only the best people. Vincent, you see, with his prince; Olivier with the Comte de Passavant. … As for George, he has been going about at Houlgate with one of his schoolfellows—a young Adamanti—he’s to be at the Vedel-Azaïs school next term too; a boy in whom one can have complete confidence; his father is senator for Corsica. But just see how prudent one has to be! Olivier had a friend who seemed to belong to an excellent family—a certain Bernard Profitendieu. I must tell you that old Profitendieu is a colleague of mine; a most distinguished man. I have particular esteem for him. But … (between ourselves) … it has just come to my knowledge that he is not the father of the boy who bears his name! What do you say to that?”
“Young Bernard Profitendieu is the very person who spoke to me about Olivier,” I said.
Molinier drew a few deep puffs from his cigar and raised his eyebrows very
