How much misery may result from an instant’s weakness! If a woman could ever calculate it, would she be guilty? But did I myself calculate it before my marriage? No; we must have passions and torments and excitement. A pure and tranquil happiness would bore us, and yet there are some people who know that happiness; there are privileged beings; and there are some too who have no passions, who love as they eat, or drink, or sleep. Having no knowledge of veritable love, they do not suffer its torments; perhaps they are the happier for it.
After five years and a few months of married life, and a love marriage, too! She seemed to love me so dearly! was it not real love at that time? If not, what constrained her to tell me so and to marry me? Her mother did only as she wished. The woman who is forced to give her hand to a man whom she does not love is much less guilty when she betrays her faith. But to manifest so much love for me, and—But no, I must forget all that.
Ernest and his wife returned from the play, and were told that a gentleman was waiting for them in their salon. They came in and exclaimed in surprise when they saw me:
“Why, it is Blémont!”
“It is Monsieur Henri! How long it is since we have seen you! how do you happen to come so late?”
“I wanted to see you; I have a favor to ask of Ernest.”
They both looked at me and both came toward me simultaneously.
“What’s the matter, pray? What has happened to you?”
“How pale he is, and how distressed!”
“Nothing is the matter.”