Le Cocu (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XVIII)

by Paul de Kock

I went sometimes to see Ernest; he too, was a father, the father of a little boy. He and Marguerite were happy beyond words. Fortune smiled upon them; Ernest was earning money, and, if he had chosen, there were plenty of people who would gladly have come to his table to congratulate him upon his success and to flatter his wife, closing their eyes to what was lacking in their union. But Marguerite did not choose to go into society; she insisted that a few real friends are much to be preferred to parties where women tear one another to pieces and men deceive one another. She spoke of the world as if she were familiar with it.

“This society in which you wish me to mingle,” she said to Ernest, “would think that it did me much honor by receiving me; indeed many women would blush to speak to me. ‘She is not married,’ they would say to one another as they eyed me contemptuously. And I, my dear, do not feel disposed to put up with such a greeting. In the bottom of my heart I feel quite as worthy of esteem as any of those ladies; for I would give my blood and my life for you; and there is more than one of them who would not do as much for her husband.”

I considered that my old neighbor was right. Ernest himself had no answer to make; and yet he would have been glad to have her go sometimes into the world, in order to acquire the habits of society and to avoid awkwardness if she should ever receive company. He wished to make his little Marguerite a lady. It seemed to me that she was very well as she was.

For some time my wife had been less jealous; perhaps she felt that she had always been wrong to be jealous; perhaps she had striven to correct herself. But suppose that that were not the reason? Suppose that she cared less for me? Mon Dieu! how ingenious we are in inventing tortures for ourselves! I was unhappy because of my wife’s jealousy; and lo and behold, I had begun to worry because she left me in peace!

Sometimes, however, I saw that her eyes followed me as of old when I was speaking to a pretty woman; but if, after playing the gallant, I approached Eugénie, as if to set her heart at rest, she would look away with an indifferent air, and pretend that she had not been noticing me. Was that her new way of loving me, and was there no mean between that frigid manner and the transports of jealousy?

Among the people who came to my house, there were many men of letters and artists. Their company was agreeable; they were at least witty in their malice, and unceremonious in their manners. A very pleasant painter, whom we had met at many functions, insisted, although a bachelor, upon giving a ball for the ladies at whose houses he often danced. Monsieur Leberger issued his invitations, and everybody accepted. We looked forward to having much sport and merriment at a party given by a bachelor painter. For my part, I was careful to obtain invitations for the Bélans and the Girauds; I love to bring enemies face to face. Leberger invited everybody who was suggested to him, his most earnest wish being to have a large number of guests; indeed, the ballroom was to be his studio, and there would be plenty of room.

My wife made some objections to going to the ball; she thought that it would not be enjoyable, she declared that she no longer cared about dancing. No longer cared about dancing, and she was but twenty years old! I insisted that she should go, and she yielded at last. But we did not start until our little Henriette was asleep; I wished that she were old enough to go and dance with us.

Two torches at Leberger’s door pointed out his abode when we were still far away. Our artist was determined that nothing should be lacking at his ball; the staircase was lighted by candelabra at frequent intervals; there were no flowers on the stairs, but there were rugs. The strains of the orchestra guided us, for the ball was already under way. An obliging neighbor, who lived on the same floor as the artist, had lent him his apartment, which served both as dressing room and laboratory; for the punch was concocted and the refreshments prepared in the neighbor’s apartment.

The studio, transformed into a ballroom, presented a striking appearance. It was spacious, but well-lighted. Finished pictures, sketches and studies adorned the walls. Busts, statues, and torsos served as candelabra; the musicians were perched upon a broad flight of steps, above which ancient Roman costumes were draped. The orchestra was made up of amateurs; but those amateurs had the self-assurance and almost the talent of Tolbecque. Behind them stood a manikin, which held a serpent to its mouth, as if it were playing on it; and a small flute was placed in the mouth of an Ajax, and a trombone in the hand of Belisarius.

There was a great crowd; Leberger had invited a great many of his fellow-painters, and poets, musicians, and sculptors. The ball was already well in train. I saw Giraud dancing with his daughter, while his wife had accepted the invitation of her oldest son, who was beginning to administer some very graceful kicks to his neighbors. I saw Madame Bélan, who had deigned to accept the hand of a poet, while her husband remained with his mother-in-law, Madame de Beausire, who was seated in a corner of the studio, where she seemed to be posing as the Mother of the Maccabees.