“I saw her on the following Sunday, and the
next Sunday, and every Sunday. I took her to
Bougival, Saint-Germain, Maisons-Lafitte, Poissy;
to every suburban resort of lovers.
“The little jade, in turn, pretended to love
me, until, at last, I altogether lost my head, and
three months later I married her.
“What can you expect, Monsieur, when a man is
a clerk, living alone, without any relations, or anyone
to advise him? One says to oneself: ’How
sweet life would be with a wife!’
“And so one gets married, and she calls you
names from morning till night, understands nothing,
knows nothing, chatters continually, sings the song
of Musette at the top of her voice (oh! that
song of Musette, how tired one gets of it!);
quarrels with the charcoal dealer, tells the porter
of all her domestic details, confides all the secrets
of her bedroom to the neighbor’s servant, discusses
her husband with the trades-people, and has her head
so stuffed with such stupid stories, with such idiotic
superstitions, with such extraordinary ideas and such
monstrous prejudices, that I—for what I
have said, applies more particularly to myself—shed
tears of discouragement every time I talked to her.”
He stopped, as he was rather out of breath, and very
much moved, and I looked at him, for I felt pity for
this poor, artless devil, and I was just going to
give him some sort of answer, when the boat stopped.
We were at Saint-Cloud.
The little woman who had so taken my fancy, got up
in order to land. She passed close to me, and
gave me a side glance and a furtive smile; one of
those smiles that drive you mad; then she jumped on
the landing-stage. I sprang forward to follow
her, but my neighbor laid hold of my arm, I shook
myself loose, however, whereupon he seized the skirt
of my coat, and pulled me back, exclaiming:
“You shall not go! You shall not go!”
in such a loud voice, that everybody turned round
and laughed, and I remained standing motionless and
furious, but without venturing to face scandal and
ridicule, and the steamboat started.
The little woman on the landing-stage looked at me
as I went off with an air of disappointment, while
my persecutor rubbed his hands, and whispered to me:
“I have done you a great service, you must acknowledge.”
Every time he held an inspection on the review ground,
General Daumont de Croisailles was sure of a small
success, and of receiving a whole packet of letters
from women the next day.
Some were almost illegible, scribbled on paper with
a love emblem at the top, by some sentimental milliner;
the others ardent, as if saturated with curry, letters
which excited him, and suggested the delights of kisses
to him.
Among them, also, there were some which evidently
came from a woman of the world, who was tired of her
monotonous life, had lost her head, and let her pen
run on, without exactly knowing what she was writing,
with those mistakes in spelling here and there which
seemed to be in unison with the disordered beating
of her heart.
