I was quite touched—although the scene afforded amusement to the other prisoners—and resolved to do my best to obtain his release. I am naturally tender-hearted, too much so indeed. It was most proper on his part, that he owned his faults and ugliness, and rendered homage to my beauty.
I went at once to the presiding judge, who, viewing me over his spectacles, was astonished at my attractive appearance. He was clever, amiable, and leisurely, so that the trial of my husband lasted a long time.
Now is the moment when I must own a strange fact, and let in the light on a hitherto dark recess in my heart. Hardly was my Bull-dog incarcerated than my hatred of him changed to affection. He was no longer there for me to grumble at, and every time my eyes caught his clarionet in the corner they filled with tears. I was almost frightened at the power this morally and physically imperfect creature had over me, and the place he had filled in my life. His comical face, his cap, even his silence were wanting. I never knew where to vent my bad temper, which at times made me feel fit to burst. I tried to distract my attention, fearing lest my health should give way, but it was of no avail. I hardly dare to say it, I loved my Bull-dog, the jealous clarionet, I loved him! For all that, consideration for my feelings prevented me repeating my visit to the noxious prison which caused me a dreadful attack of neuralgia.
Thanks to my keeping him out of sight, his image became idealised in my imagination. In my dreams he appeared clothed in charms not his own. The news of his release was such a shock to my nerves that I nearly fainted. I rejoiced in his freedom. Soon after he arrived, but oh dear, how ugly he was! His coat was dirty, and his whole being steeped in an odour most offensive. A block of ice had fallen on my heart.
“My Greyhound! my wife! my darling!” he cried, running to meet me.
“Good morning, my friend,” I replied, averting my nose. I had no courage to say more, my dreams had vanished.
All this passed long ago. Now my indignation brings the smile to my lips. Nothing more. I have learned to make the most of my bargain. If I made a mistake, and married a clarionet in place of a first-class tenor, I determined not to die of grief, but rather to be as brave as beautiful, and devote myself to cultivating all that was good in my Bull-dog. He has left off wearing his cap, and positively plays better; his walk is improved, and, by the dim light of the lamp, his profile is marked by a certain character.
“How pretty you are, little heartless one,” he sometimes says. I reply in the same tone, “How ugly you are, my fat jealous one.”
