I remember the words so well, because they so nearly came true.
In a few days Damala returned, to find Sarah ill from anxiety and bruised pride. God knows what his excuses were, what methods he took to win his pardon! A woman in love is ever ready to believe, and Sarah was no exception.
The next day they were together again as usual.
The company went to Ostend, where it played five nights. On the last night Damala disappeared again, and was heard from two days later in Brussels, whither he had gone with a pretty Belgian acquaintance.
He rejoined Sarah in Paris, and Sarah forgave him again. He would pretend to be ill and win her pity; and once pity takes the place of resentment in a woman’s heart it is not difficult for a clever man to obtain everything he wishes.
With every month of their married life, Damala’s behaviour deteriorated. It began to be said of him that he was the most unfaithful husband in all France, which was saying a good deal.
“I saw Damala at the theatre last night,” somebody would say.
“With Sarah?”
“Sarah? No, of course not, imbecile! Sarah is now his wife!”
And so it went on.