And I had the whole of life before me, and I would be tied to a woman all through life—to a woman I did not love! And the worst part of the whole business was the fact that I could get out of the whole thing as easily as a man steps out of a cab—as easily as a man crushes a flower. And that was what bound me.
To stay in the affair, to be made party to my own social ruin, was the most difficult business on earth.
Days of argument I spent with myself. The two terrible logicians that live in every man's brain fought it out; there was no escaping from the conclusion: "If you have made this girl love you, you must ask her to be your wife, for under the guise of a brother's friendship you have treated her just as any of these Boulevard sots and fools would have treated her. Oh, don't talk of Nature and sudden impulse—that is just the argument they would use! You did this thing unpremeditatedly, we will admit. Well, you have your whole life to meditate over the reparation and to make it. Faults of this description are ugly toys made by the devil, and they have to be paid for with either your happiness or your soul. Of course, you can treat her as your mistress; and she, poor child, tossed already about and bruised by the waves of chance, would be content. But would you? Would you be content to thrust still deeper in the mud of life this creature that fate has thrown on your hands? The powers of darkness have surely conspired against this unfortunate being. She, a daughter of the Felicianis, has been dragged in the mire of Paris. Would you be on the side of darkness too?"
That was what my heart said against all the arguments of my head. And so it remained.
"To-morrow," said I, "I will go to Etiolles, and I will ask Eloise to be my wife."
That afternoon, walking in the Rue de Rivoli, I saw Franzius—Franzius, whom I imagined to be at Fauchard's cottage, green leagues away from Paris! He was walking rapidly. I had to run to catch him up; and when he turned his face I saw that he was in trouble. He was without his violin.
"Why, Franzius," I cried, "what are you doing here, and what ails you? Have you lost your violin?"
"Oh, my friend!" said Franzius. "What ails me? I am in trouble. No, I have not lost my violin, I have forgotten it—it has ceased to be, for me. Ah, yes, there is no more music in life! The birds have ceased singing, the blue sky has gone—Germany calls me back."
"Good heavens!" I said. "What's the matter? You haven't left Etiolles for good, have you?"
"Oh, no! I am going back for a few days. I came to Paris to-day to seek relief—to hear the streets—to forget——"