We had already written a multitude of names; I had not forgotten Bélan, and as the ladies were slightly acquainted with Madame de Beausire and her daughter, we sent them an invitation too; I knew that that would rejoice poor Ferdinand. Suddenly I stopped, and looking at Eugénie and her mother with a smile, I said to them:
“Shall we put down their names too?”
“I am sure that I know whom you mean!” cried Eugénie. “Henri is thinking of the Giraud family.”
“Exactly.”
“Why invite them?” asked Madame Dumeillan; “they are terrible bores, and their inquisitiveness actually amounts to spying.”
“I agree with you, and the last time they came to your reception they made themselves ridiculous. But I cannot forget that it was at their house that I first met Eugénie. And then our invitation will please them so much! and when I am so happy, I like others to be so.”
“Henri is right, mamma; let us invite them.”
So Giraud’s name was put down on the list. At last, the solemn day arrived. I rose at six o’clock in the morning, having slept hardly at all. I could not keep still. What should I do until eleven o’clock, when I was to call for my mother, and then for my Eugénie? To read was impossible; to draw or to paint was equally impossible. To think of her—ah! I did nothing else; but it fatigued me and did not divert my thoughts. After dressing, I went all over my apartment, where I was still alone; I made sure that nothing was lacking. I hoped that she would be comfortable there. That apartment, which I had occupied four years, involuntarily reminded me of a thousand incidents of my bachelor life. That room, that little salon had seen more than one female figure. I had received many visits. When a lady had promised to come to breakfast or to pass the day with me, how impatiently I counted the minutes! How, until the time arrived, I dreaded lest some inopportune visitor should ring the bell in place of her whom I expected! How many kisses, oaths and promises had been exchanged on that couch! And all those things were so soon forgotten!—Ah! I was very happy in those days too!
But suddenly I thought of all the letters I had received; I had not burned them, and they were in a casket on my desk. I had often enjoyed reading them over; but suppose Eugénie should find them! I determined to burn them, to burn them all; for what was the use of them now?
I took out the casket which contained them; I opened it; it was stuffed with them. There are some women who are so fond of writing, either because they write well, or because they think they do, or simply because they love one. I took all the letters and carried them to the fireplace, where I made a pile of them. But before setting fire to them, I opened one, then another, then another; each of them reminded me of an episode, some day of my life. It is strange how quickly time passes amid such old souvenirs. The clock struck nine, and I was still reading. I was no longer in love with any of those women, but it was my last farewell to bachelorhood.