“You are confounded, monsieur! you cannot think of any more lies to tell; it’s a pity, you tell them so well! So this is the woman with whom you have had nothing to do for a long time, whom you don’t see now, and whom you never loved! But you have her portrait, you treasure it carefully, with those of seven other women whom you probably meet by accident, as you met that creature yesterday! Eight mistresses at once! I congratulate you, monsieur; you make a most virtuous and orderly husband! And this is the man who swore when he married me that he would never love any woman but me! that I alone would suffice to make him happy! Very well, monsieur, have eight mistresses, have thirty, if you choose, but I will not continue to live with a man who acts so. I no longer love you; I feel that I hate you, that I cannot endure the sight of you. I am going home to my mother. Then, monsieur, you will be free to receive your neighbors and all the women whose portraits you paint.”
“Faith, madame, you will do as you choose. For my part, I confess that I am beginning to be tired of your jealous disposition and of your outbreaks, your scenes. This is not the life that I looked forward to when I married. It has ceased to be that pleasant, happy life which was ours at first; and yet, I love you as dearly as ever; I have not ceased for one instant to love you. It is not my fault if you manufacture chimeras, if you detect intrigues in the most innocent things. I have nothing to reproach myself for. If I were guilty, it is probable that I should have taken precautions, and should have found a way to conceal my guilt; but I did nothing wrong in keeping portraits which were painted before I knew you, and which recalled my bachelor studies. It is true that one of them is a portrait of the woman that I met yesterday. In fact, that was what she asked me for, and what I had just promised to send her, when you appeared.”
“Not to send her, but to carry to her yourself. I remember perfectly now. Oh! you can’t make me believe, monsieur, that that portrait was painted long ago. It is that woman just as I saw her yesterday, while she was shaking hands with you so lovingly. And the idea of your daring to claim to be innocent, when I discover every day fresh proofs of your faithlessness! But you shall not carry her her portrait,—neither hers, nor any other. Look! this is what I do with them! Ah! I wish that I could break the bonds that bind me to you in the same way!”
Eugénie threw the miniatures on the floor; she jumped upon them and ground them to pieces under her feet; I had never seen her in such a frenzy of rage. I said nothing; I kept my seat, and my placidity seemed to intensify her wrath. At last, when she had reduced the ivories to powder, she raised the sleeve of her dress, snatched the bracelet from her arm, in which my portrait was set, and then threw it upon the floor and trampled upon it, crying:
“I will not keep the portrait of a man whom I can no longer love!”
The sight of the destruction of the women’s portraits had caused me no emotion; but when I saw Eugénie trample my image under her feet, my image which she had sworn to keep as long as she lived, I felt a sharp pang. A keen, poignant grief suddenly took possession of me. It seemed to me that my happiness had been destroyed like that portrait. I involuntarily started to stop Eugénie; but a feeling of just pride held me back, and I allowed her to consummate the sacrifice.
After shattering my portrait, Eugénie dropped into a chair as if exhausted by the transport of passion to which she had yielded. I fancied even that I could detect in her eyes some feeling of shame for what she had done. Thereupon I rose and gazed sadly at the shattered fragments of my portrait; then, glancing at my wife, I left the room without saying a word to her. I left the house. I have no idea where I went. I had not dined, but it was my turn not to be hungry. I could still see Eugénie trampling upon my portrait, and it seemed to me that she could no longer love me, that her love and her fidelity were attached to that image for which she no longer cared.
I realized that I must be a man rather than a lover, for love does not last forever, but manliness sustains us throughout our whole life. While reasoning thus with myself, I sighed profoundly, for I still adored Eugénie; after all, jealousy is a proof of love, they say: my wife would come to herself and I would forgive her. But the breaking of my portrait, my work, which should have reminded her of the delicious sittings, when she was beside me—Ah! that was very wicked! and I should have difficulty in forgiving her for that.
I walked a long while; at last I found myself in my old street; I believe that our legs have an instinct of their own, and that they lead us toward the places which they have often traversed.
Suppose I should go to see Ernest and his wife, I thought, to divert my mind from my troubles? They were my only friends, and would gladly share my sorrows. However, I would not tell them of my woes, but I would forget them in their company. So I betook myself to Rue du Temple.