“It is wrong, monsieur, to couple my name with
that of Madame de Fleurel. When I returned from
the war-without my feet, alas! I never would have
permitted her to become my wife. Was it possible?
When one marries, monsieur, it is not in order to
parade one’s generosity; it is in order to live
every day, every hour, every minute, every second beside
a man; and if this man is disfigured, as I am, it
is a death sentence to marry him! Oh, I understand,
I admire all sacrifices and devotions when they have
a limit, but I do not admit that a woman should give
up her whole life, all joy, all her dreams, in order
to satisfy the admiration of the gallery. When
I hear, on the floor of my room, the tapping of my
wooden legs and of my crutches, I grow angry enough
to strangle my servant. Do you think that I would
permit a woman to do what I myself am unable to tolerate?
And, then, do you think that my stumps are pretty?”
He was silent. What could I say? He certainly
was right. Could I blame her, hold her in contempt,
even say that she was wrong? No. However,
the end which conformed to the rule, to the truth,
did not satisfy my poetic appetite. These heroic
deeds demand a beautiful sacrifice, which seemed to
be lacking, and I felt a certain disappointment.
I suddenly asked: “Has Madame de Fleurel
any children?”
“Yes, one girl and two boys. It is for
them that I am bringing these toys. She and her
husband are very kind to me.”
The train was going up the incline to Saint-Germain.
It passed through the tunnels, entered the station,
and stopped. I was about to offer my arm to the
wounded officer, in order to help him descend, when
two hands were stretched up to him through the open
door.
“Hello! my dear Revaliere!”
“Ah! Hello, Fleurel!”
Standing behind the man, the woman, still beautiful,
was smiling and waving her hands to him. A little
girl, standing beside her, was jumping for joy, and
two young boys were eagerly watching the drum and the
gun, which were passing from the car into their father’s
hands.
When the cripple was on the ground, all the children
kissed him. Then they set off, the little girl
holding in her hand the small varnished rung of a
crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend
and hold his thumb.
A STROLL
When Old Man Leras, bookkeeper for Messieurs Labuze
and Company, left the store, he stood for a minute
bewildered at the glory of the setting sun. He
had worked all day in the yellow light of a small jet
of gas, far in the back of the store, on a narrow
court, as deep as a well. The little room where
he had been spending his days for forty years was so
dark that even in the middle of summer one could hardly
see without gaslight from eleven until three.
It was always damp and cold, and from this hole on
which his window opened came the musty odor of a sewer.
