I fell into the habit of spending the end of each day at the pavilion in order to escape from the morose atmosphere of the chateau. One evening it happened that Mme. Mairieux began to speak freely of her daughter and with deep emotion. Sympathising with her grief, I tried to console her:
“At least she was happy,” I murmured.
“Was she not?” the good lady replied quickly. “Her husband gave her such a beautiful life, Paris, society, luxury, entertainments, everything that one cares for at her age. It is true that she was not as fond of that sort of thing as most young women are. According to my ideas, she was a little too quiet and serious. It was pleasure, nevertheless, especially after this desert of The Sleeping Woods.”
“This desert pleased her,” interrupted M. Mairieux, who did not like this statement.
“Perhaps the change was too abrupt,” I suggested.
“Oh, no. She never complained of it, and surely she would have told me. In whom would she confide, if not in her mother? I knew her so well, the dear child.”
Her husband was obviously and unmistakably growing irritated. He tried to change the subject, but she would have none of it.
“During her long illness Raymond was perfect to her,” she persisted. “He came here with her, he gave up all his own affairs, he called in the most celebrated physicians, and now, on top of it all, he accuses himself of not having been a sufficiently devoted husband. To us, who saw him at the time, it is simply madness.”
She had reached this point in her eulogy of her son-in-law, when M. Mairieux left the room. I believed that I understood the meaning of his departure: he was protesting silently against his wife’s praises.
* * *