Le Cocu (Novels of Paul de Kock Volume XVIII)

by Paul de Kock

How happiness makes the time fly! A fortnight after I became Eugénie’s husband it seemed to both of us that we had been married only the day before. That fortnight had passed so rapidly! It would be very difficult for me to say how we employed the time; we had no leisure to do anything. In the first place, we rose late, we breakfasted tête-à-tête, and then we talked; often I held Eugénie on my knees; people can understand each other better when they are close together.

We made a multitude of plans, our conversation being often interrupted by the kisses which I stole, or which she gave me. We were much surprised, when we glanced at the clock, to find that it was almost noon and that we had been talking for two hours. Then we had to think about dressing to go to see Madame Dumeillan, and sometimes to take a walk or drive. We continued to talk while we dressed. I would ask Eugénie to sing me a song, or to play something on the piano. If I chanced to have a visitor, or a client who kept me in my office fifteen minutes, when I came out I would find my wife already impatient at my long absence, and we would talk a few minutes more to make up to ourselves for the annoyance caused by my visitor. At last we would go out; but we always acted like school children and chose the longest way, so that it was almost dinner time when we reached my mother-in-law’s. We had been to the theatre twice since we were married; we preferred that to going to parties. At the theatre we were still alone and could talk when the play was dull; but in society one is never free to do whatever one pleases. We always returned home early, and we were always glad to get home. But, I say again, the time passed like a flash.

My wife found my apartment much to her liking; she told me that it was a pleasure to her to live where I had lived as a bachelor. She often questioned me about that period of my life, and listened to my answers with interest and curiosity; but I did not tell her everything; I slurred over many episodes; for I had discovered that Eugénie was jealous. Her brow darkened when there were women in my adventures, and she often interrupted me, saying angrily:

“That’s enough, hush! I don’t want to know any more!”

Then I would kiss her and say:

“My dear love, I didn’t know you then.”

But, despite my caresses, her ill humor always lasted some minutes.

However, it was necessary that we should do something else than talk and embrace. Eugénie agreed to teach me to play on the piano, and I to give her lessons in painting. But first of all, I began her portrait. That was an occupation which took an endless time, for we were constantly distraught; when I looked at my model, and she fastened her lovely eyes upon me and smiled affectionately at me, how could I always resist the desire to kiss her? And she would pout so prettily when I failed to lay aside my brush for a long while! At that I would rise and rush to my model and embrace her. Such episodes led me to think that painters must be very self-restrained, to resist the temptations they must experience when they are painting the portrait of a young and pretty woman. A woman whom we are painting looks at us as we wish her to look; we request a very sweet glance and smile, and she exerts herself to make her expression as pleasing and amiable as possible; for a woman always desires her picture to be fascinating.

For my own part, I had never needed to resist my desires, for I had painted none but my mistresses; but when one must needs scrutinize in detail innumerable charms, and stand quietly by one’s easel—ah! then, I repeat, one must be most virtuous, and that particular sort of virtue is not the characteristic quality of painters.

Despite our frequent distractions, I worked assiduously at my wife’s portrait; in ten sittings it was finished, and I was delighted with my work; the likeness was striking. Eugénie herself uttered a cry of surprise when she saw herself; but she feared that I had flattered her. No; I had not painted her, to be sure, as she was in company, when she looked at everybody indifferently, but as she was when she looked at me while I was painting her, with eyes overflowing with love. It seemed to me that I had done wisely to select that expression; for it was for myself and not for others that I had painted her portrait.