that was perhaps fraught with the gravest consequences for her and myself. I was dissatisfied with myself for not having been able to resist Juliette's wish, expressed in such delicious fashion, that I live together with her. … Could we not love each other just as well if each of us lived separately and avoid the possible clashes over such sordid things as wall-paper, for example.
And while the splendor of all this plush and the insolence of all these gilt objects in the midst of which we were now going to live frightened me, I felt a sorrowful attachment for my own scanty furniture placed without order, for my little apartment, austere yet tranquil, and now empty—an attachment one has for beloved things that are dead. But Juliette would pass by, busy, agile and charming, would embrace and kiss me on her way, and there was such a life-giving joy in her whole being, a joy so easily mingled with astonishment and childish despair at anything lost, that my morose thoughts vanished as do the night owls at sunrise.
Ah! the happy days that followed our moving from the Rue Saint Petersbourg! … First we had to test every piece of furniture down to the smallest details. Juliette sat on every divan, lounge and sofa, causing the springs to creak.
"You try it also, my dear," she would say to me. She examined every piece of furniture, scrutinized the hangings, tried the strings of the door curtain, moved a chair to a different place, smoothed a crease in the draperies. And every instant cries of admiration, of ecstasy were heard!
Then she wanted to start the inspection of the apartment all over again with the windows closed and the lights burning, in order to see the effect produced at night, never tiring of examining a thing more than once, running from one room to another, marking down every defect on a piece of paper. Then it was the wardrobe where she put her linen and mine with meticulous care and elaborate nicety and the consummate skill of a stall keeper. I chided her for assigning to me the better scentbags.
"No! no! no! I want to have a little husband who uses perfume!"
Of her old furniture and old knick-knacks, Juliette had kept only the terra cotta statue of Love which again took its place of honor on the mantlepiece in the parlor. I, on the other hand, had brought over only my books and two very beautiful sketches by Lirat which I thought it a duty to hang up in my study. Scandalized, Juliette cried with indignation:
"What are you doing there, my dear? … Such horrible things in our new apartment! … Please put these horrible things away somewhere! Oh, put them away!"
"My dear Juliette," I answered somewhat provoked. "You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?"
"Certainly I have. … But what has that to do with this? … My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there … why really! … And then it's improper! … Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach."
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere. … Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
"Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!"
And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured:
"Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it! … How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest! … "
The next morning Juliette said to me:
"It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don't want him to think that I keep you from visiting him."
It was true, nevertheless. It really seemed as if for the last five months, I had forgotten all about poor Lirat. But had I really forgotten him? Alas no! … Shame kept me from going to him. … Shame alone estranged me from him. … I assure you that I would have never hesitated to announce to the whole world: "I am Juliette's lover!"; but I had not the courage to utter these words in Lirat's presence.
At first I had a notion to confess all to him, no matter what happened to our friendship. … I would say to myself: "all right, tomorrow I am going to see Lirat" … I would make up my mind firmly. … And the next day: "Not now … there is nothing pressing … tomorrow! … " Tomorrow, always tomorrow! … And days, weeks, months passed. … Tomorrow!
Now that he had been told all about these things by Malterre, who even before my departure used to come and make his sofa groan, how could I broach the subject to him? … What could I say to him? … How endure his look, his contempt, his anger. … His anger, perhaps! … But his contempt, his terrible silence, the disconcerting sneer which I already saw taking shape at the corner of his mouth. … No, no, really I did not dare! … To try to mollify him, to take his hand, to ask his forgiveness for my lack of confidence in him, to appeal to the generosity of his heart! … No! It would ill become me to assume such a part, and then Lirat with just one word could throw a damper on me and stop my effusion. … What's the use! … Each day that passed separated us further, estranged us from each other more and more … a few more months and there would no longer be any Lirat to reckon with in my life! … I should prefer that rather than cross his threshold and face him in person. … I replied to Juliette:
"Lirat? … Oh yes. … I think I'll do that some of these days!"
"No, no!" insisted Juliette. … "Today! You know him, you know how mean he is. God knows how many ugly things he must have said about us!"
I had to make up my mind to see him. From the Rue de Balzac to Rodrigue Place is but a short distance. To postpone as long as possible the moment of this painful interview I made a long detour on my way, walking as far as the shop district of the Saint Honoré suburb. And I was thinking to myself: "Suppose I don't go to see Lirat at all. I can tell her, when I come back, that we have quarrelled, and I can invent some sort of a story that will forever relieve me of the necessity of this visit." I felt ashamed of this boyish thought. … Then I hoped that Lirat was not at home! With what joy could I then roll up my card into a tube and slip it through the keyhole! Comforted by this thought I at last turned in the direction of Rodrigue Place and stopped in front of the door of the studio—and this door seemed to fill me with fear. Still I rapped at it and presently a voice, Lirat's voice, called:
"Come in!"
My heart beat furiously, a bar of fire stopped my throat—I wanted to flee. …
"Come in!" the voice repeated.
I turned the door knob.
"Ah! Is that you, Mintié," Lirat exclaimed. "Come on in."
Lirat was seated at his table, writing a letter.
"May I finish this?" he said to me. "Just two more minutes and I'll be through."
He resumed writing. It was a relief not to feel upon myself the chill of his look. I took advantage of the fact that his back was turned to unburden my soul to him.
"I have not seen you for such a long time, my good Lirat."
"Why,
