For several days Eugénie and I hardly spoke; she remained in her bedroom almost all day, and I in my study. In that way we did not dispute, to be sure; but that mode of life was very dismal; it was not for the purpose of living on such terms with my wife that I married her; and I felt that I should certainly regret my bachelor days if it was to continue.
I went more than once to Ernest’s. Ah! what a difference! how happy they were! they were still lovers. Love, pleasure, happiness—those are what they gave to each other; and they were still as light of heart, as much like children, as when they lived under the eaves. Ernest, as a matter of courtesy, asked me about my wife; but I fancied that he was not anxious to see her again; for my part, I dared not urge him to come, although I was careful not to mention my quarrel with Eugénie.
When two people are young, especially when they are fond of each other, they cannot remain on bad terms long. Eugénie and I hovered about each other, but our accursed pride and self-esteem continued to keep us apart. It was a contest between us to see which should give way first; because, doubtless, she did not think she was in the wrong, and I was perfectly sure that I was in the right. But one day, when Eugénie was seated beside me, saying nothing, I threw self-esteem to the winds; I embraced my wife affectionately, and we were reconciled. Ah! such reconciliations are very sweet. However, as they are always the result of quarrels, I consider that they are a pleasure in which one should indulge in moderation. The time for us to move drew near, and I felt that I should regret to leave that house in which I had passed such happy hours. But I kept my regrets to myself, for my wife would have ascribed them to other reasons. For Eugénie, that change was an unalloyed joy. I pretended to share it. I think that her satisfaction was twofold: in the first place, because she was leaving that house; in the second place, because she was moving from that neighborhood, where she knew that we were near the home of Ernest and his wife.
On the eve of the day when we were to move, as everything in our apartment was topsy-turvy, we preferred not to dine there; we could not invite ourselves to dine with Madame Dumeillan, who had not been well for some time; to go to my mother’s might cause her to lose her evening game of whist; so we made up our minds to dine at a restaurant, in a private room. My wife looked forward to it with delight. As my business would detain me quite late in the Tuileries quarter, I arranged to meet Eugénie on the Terrasse des Feuillants; she was to go to our new apartment, and then to meet me at the place appointed, at five o’clock.
I finished my business as quickly as I could, for I did not wish that Eugénie should be at the rendezvous before me, and have to wait for me. I made such haste that it was not half-past four when I reached the Garden of the Tuileries. No matter, I thought, I will stroll about.
Less than three minutes after I had arrived, I heard a voice which was not unfamiliar to me, say:
“It seems that we are fated always to meet here; it is very strange, really.”
It was Lucile again. I had not seen her since my wedding day. She was dressed very elegantly, and she was alone.
“Is it you, madame?”
“Yes, monsieur, I am obliged to come to the garden to meet you.”