And things grew worse and worse.
A few days later Marie, trying to work on my feelings, posing as the submissive wife, asked me, quite humbly, whether I had any, objection to her chaperoning the "poor child" on a visit to an old friend of her late father's, whom she intended to ask for a loan. The request struck me as so strange that it set me thinking, especially when I took into account her friend's bad reputation. I implored Marie, for our child's sake, to open her eyes, to rouse herself from the trance in which she seemed to live, and which would surely end with her complete ruin—her only reply was a repetition of her old phrase: "Your base imagination...."
And still matters declined.
Her friend gave a luncheon for the secret purpose of beguiling on this occasion a well-known actor into making her a proposal of marriage. A fresh revelation awaited me, a revelation which effectually roused me from my lethargy.
Champagne had been drunk, and the ladies had taken more than was good for them. Marie was reclining in an arm-chair, and before her knelt her friend, kissing her on the lips. The famous actor, interested in the strange spectacle, called to one of his friends, and pointing at the couple as if he were bringing proof of an accusation, exclaimed—
"Look here! D'you see?"
Doubtless he was alluding to certain rumours, and there was a hidden meaning in the laughing words.
As soon as we arrived home, I implored Marie to shake off this fatal infatuation and be more careful of her reputation. She made no secret of the pleasure she found in kissing pretty women; her friend was not the only one of her colleagues whom she treated in this way; at the theatre, in the dressing-rooms she bestowed the same favour on others.
She had no intention of denying herself this pleasure, this innocent pleasure, which in my perverted imagination only was vicious.
It was impossible to make her see her conduct in a different light; there was but one remedy....