Dedication
TO
MY DEAR AUNT VIRGINIA
WITH THE AFFECTIONATE REGARD
OF
RUTH HELEN DAVIS
Part I
I The First Act of Procedure
A suit for divorce or separation is begun, as everyone knows, by a petition to the presiding judge: the party seeking freedom or release from the conjugal tie briefly states his grievances, and requests the magistrate, according to law, to attempt a reconciliation, a useless proceeding in most cases, before the final break. In the provinces, the first step in the proceedings is generally heartily welcomed in the solicitors’ offices. The clerks hastily leave their desks to get a look at the rough draft—which they will soon have to copy—with all the eagerness of youth to enjoy a scandal, the participants in which are known to them. It is a regular treat for them; but their unkindness is quite devoid of malice.
Thus, the Derize case at Grenoble brought into close conference in M. Tabourin’s office, during the chief’s absence, the four clerks—the learned Vitrolle, Dauras, Lestaque and the errand-boy Malaunay. They began the reading of a communication from the veteran barrister, M. Salvage with the formality commensurate with the importance of the persons concerned, and with a sense of the glory reflected upon the office by such a truly Parisian affair.
“Another victim of man’s selfishness!” cried Vitrolle with an air of finality.
The head clerk was chivalrous, a feminist, and imbued with a local patriotism stimulated by the scholarly learning of an archivist. Had he not discovered from statistics—into what will statistics not inquire?—that “the number of deceived husbands is less in Dauphiné than anywhere else,” this being an opinion which an old author named Chateaumières de Grenaille had formulated as early as the 16th century, stating that it was “almost a miracle to hear of a woman in Grenoble having a love-affair to the damage or prejudice of her reputation.” Nothing less than this learned authority could have induced him to side against M. Derize, whose almost universal reputation as an historian would otherwise have had great weight with him.
“Pooh, let’s wait for the answer,” protested young Malaunay, who, at the age of seventeen or eighteen, after having gone through many offices, was profoundly skeptical in all matters of morals.
But his doubts were not shared by his three colleagues, for they had seen the pretty, quiet Madame Derize in the street, in the public garden, on the quays of the Isère, and they earnestly and unanimously vouched for the innocence of their new client.
“I hope you’re right, I’m sure,” said the office boy indifferently. “All the same I had anticipated this case.”
He gave this retrospective prophecy with the air of one who knows life not merely from legal document, but from every angle of personal observation.
“What do you mean?” asked Dauras and Lestaque, who had but one thought in common.
“Well, one day at the museum—”
“What were you doing at the museum?”
“Copying a deed, perhaps—one day at the museum, M. Derize was showing his wife the pictures. I was behind them—they had stopped in front of the portrait of an old man, all wrinkled, who, at first glance, looked very ugly to me.”
“Who was the artist?” asked Vitrolle, before risking an opinion.
“I don’t know—it’s all the same to me.”
“You have no taste.”
“He was saying, ‘Look at that face; see how it sums up the whole of peasant life with its daily struggles, its sorrows, its parsimony indelibly written in the wrinkles, its dreams—and perhaps a little alcohol too—in the glassy eye.’ He spoke excitedly, and said a lot of other things that I’ve forgotten. I profited by his lessons. But Madame Derize did not stir any more than a post. She certainly is beautiful, but I find her too impassive. Really, I thought the old man quite alive, instead of just a portrait in a frame hanging on the wall.”
“What then?”
“Listen. To the right of the old man there was a picture of a lady in a low cut dress. A red dress with all kinds of dangles on the sleeves and bodice. Mme. Derize took in the costume at a glance, you understand; she said: ‘Lace looks very well with velvet.’ Her husband was furious and did not say another word while they were in the gallery.”
“And after that?” said Vitrolle.
“After that? Nothing. Divorce, that’s all.”
His hearers burst into insolent laughter which vexed Malaunay, for he was proud of his keen insight and exceedingly sensitive. This discussion of art bored the scribblers who had expected a more risqué story. The entrance of the chief put an end to their conference.
Without being old, M. Tabourin appeared so, because he was untidy and looked as if he were covered with the dust of his folios. He had often envied the baldness of most of his colleagues, when hurriedly running a comb through his overabundant hair, for it remained rumpled like poor soil which closes up again after being plowed. He was absorbed in the duties of his office and gave no thought to the fit of his clothing, which hung loosely on his body and twisted itself into wrinkles with every movement. Business had such a fascination for him that he never confused it with the human tragedies hidden beneath it: he considered his cases as distinct persons in themselves, living and important, each one lodging in a folio, so that he did not need occupy himself with the repetition of decisions and of the procedure in compromised or ruined homes. Professionals are nearly all so constituted, and that is why their professions do not wear them out.
“Anything new?” he asked the head clerk. Vitrolle handed him the draft.
“The Derize Petition.”
“Ah! Ah!”
This news brought out in M. Tabourin’s dull face lines of cupidity, as the light shining in a badly aired room gathers together a group of atoms and invites them to dance. He drew nearer to the window to decipher Salvage’s cramped writing. The clerks watched him curiously, with the exception of Malaunay, who was waiting for a good opportunity to leave. The lovely June sun was calling him to come out and walk.
M. Tabourin’s law-office is situated in St. André’s Square, on the first floor, opposite the court house. It is reached through a dark, dirty corridor at the end of which is an open staircase: for entrance-halls, which are the pride of Paris and frequently of foreign cities as well, are generally sacrificed in the provincial towns of France, so that even large, commodious, roomy apartments with high ceilings, have the most wretched approaches.
As Grenette Square was formerly the business center of Grenoble,—still is in fact,—so St. André’s Square was the real heart of the town, since there the religious, the municipal and the judicial life met, and even now are represented by their monuments. The past of Dauphiné dwells there, but one has to search a while to find it, for in this capital of long ago, the old is everywhere hidden beneath the new. As you alight at the station, you see only newly-built districts, houses scarcely finished, and wide avenues, whose perspective terminates in the far-away mountains. An industrious and prosperous town, you conclude, born yesterday in noble surroundings and lacking historic coloring. Even the streets have been renamed; the old “Rue des Jésuites,” where Stendhal was born, is now called “Jean Jacques Rousseau.” A few fortified gates opened in the ramparts have been ruthlessly dismantled, but those still standing interest the pedestrian, who, little by little, by following the winding paths of L’Ile Verte, finds traces of the wall of enclosure, perceives the bastions against the sides of Mont Rachois, imagines from these evidences of defensive toil the battles of old, and is prepared to discover by chance somewhere in the bright city one or other of those expressions of the spirit of a race which has maintained its integrity with a tenacity that has resisted all the labors of architects and engineers. Saint André’s Square should still be satisfying, but it is only half so. There at the western end is the tall tower of the town hall which was once the palace of the Constable de Lesdiguières, and there above the low houses which crowd about it and hide its door, is the church whose venerable octagonal stone steeple is wrought with double windows in a pointed arch. But the court house where the Parliament of Dauphiné sat, shows a façade half Gothic, half Renaissance, the materials of which have been scratched away here, replaced there, and still retain even in the sunlight that cold newness which only the touch of time melts. As to the statue of Bayard,—who is represented as dying against the trunk of a tree,—it only encumbers the narrow square without adorning it.
M. Tabourin had never noticed many monuments from his window. From the time of moving into these offices he had taken pleasure only in the nearness of the court house—which he particularly appreciated when troubled by rheumatism. The brief of a case requiring special knowledge; seizure, dispossession, “the whole gamut,” as he said enthusiastically, and involving heavy charges, when handed to him in its light blue envelope was much more attractive than the past of the province with all its memories. So he read the lawyer’s petition without sentimental curiosity, and remarked only that Mme. Derize intended to apply for a separation de plano, that is, without preliminary investigation, which would reduce the fee.
“Have you had the corroborative evidence?” he inquired.
“No, sir.”
“Was there something about a letter?”
“That is probably being kept back until after the usual attempt at reconciliation.”
“Good. You will have the papers drawn up, Vitrolle, at once.”
He took it for granted that the existence of a case dates only from the issue of its papers. Then he went into his private office and arranged one by one on the table the documents which he thought he would need for the hearing of the court that opened at nine o’clock. During this mechanical work, his inner contentment made him smile. All Grenoble had been watching this Derize case for two months, since Mme. Derize (née Molay-Norrois), had left Paris and had come to live with her parents. For the first few weeks there had been a pretense of ignorance of the subject; then, some over-gossipy friends felt a desire to provide explanations: M. Derize was traveling to authenticate the sources of some historical work; he had been unable to take his wife and children with him, but was coming back to spend his holidays at Uriage as usual. Little by little another version was given out. Some well-informed persons predicted a divorce. “Would it be tried in Grenoble or in Paris?” the lawyers were asking one another. The question was now settled for M. Tabourin: he was to represent the more sympathetic side in a trial, from which he would derive small remuneration, no doubt, but the widest publicity because of the personality of Albert Derize, the well-known historian, and of the prominent position of the Molay-Norrois family. Thoroughly pleased, he opened the door leading to his private apartments to inform Mme. Tabourin, who was grateful for this fresh bit of news which would supply her with conversation for an entire day. And this act of consideration for his wife seemed to him definitely to establish the case, even before the proceedings were officially begun.
On his return, he found M. Lagier waiting for him in the office. Philippe Lagier, although still under forty, was considered, in civil proceedings, to be one of the most capable lawyers in Grenoble. Short, sickly, with a faded complexion, delicate features, his hair already growing gray, indolent in appearance, nevertheless at the bar he was the equal of the strongest. High-strung and tense, he was tireless in public, never telling of his lonely hours of depression. His colleagues recognized his capacity for work, the modern ideas by which he simplified old methods, suppressed flowery phrases, gestures and digressions, shortened, condensed and clarified the form of pleading until it seemed like pronouncing final sentence; but people in general disliked him for the impertinence of his conversation, which was emphasized by a monocle without a cord, screwed into his eye. They disliked him too for his exaggerated contempt for professional matters and his almost fanatical fondness for the plastic arts, to which he devoted all his spare time, and for the gratification of his interest in which he went to the museums of Italy and Flanders as soon as vacation began, to collect the pictures, drawings and engravings that filled his room. And all this, to the great astonishment of the specialists, did not lessen his clientèle. He was known to be the intimate friend and college chum of Albert Derize, who would no doubt place his interests in Lagier’s hands.
M. Tabourin, bristling, with his heart in his mouth, rushed forward:
“Good morning, Chief.”
He was willing to flatter those who could help him in his work. Philippe Lagier in accordance with his method, went straight to the point:
“I have just met my colleague, Salvage. He has sent you the Derize petition:—although the parties are really residents of Paris, we have agreed to ask for the recognition of the Grenoble court.”
“Thank you,” said the lawyer, as if they had taken this step for his especial benefit, rather than, as was the case, to avoid the publicity of the newspapers.
Lagier screwed the monocle into his eye to mark the importance of this reply. It was a joke which he would add to his court anecdotes.
“Will you show me the rough draft?”
“It is being copied.”
“I have serious reasons for wishing to see it. It is not a matter of inquisitiveness, since it will be placed in my client’s hands to-morrow—I have informed M. Salvage about it.”
“Vitrolle, give me the petition.”
A man of importance and of so much authority must be handled tactfully. The head clerk got up and brought the paper to M. Lagier, whom M. Tabourin had taken into his private room. The lawyer was immediately absorbed in the document, which read as follows:—
“To the President of the First County Court of Grenoble: Mme. Albert Derize, née Elizabeth Molay-Norrois, domiciled at No. 9 Rue Bara, Paris, the wife of M. Albert Derize with whom she resides in law, but is in reality living at the Quai de la République, Grenoble, at the home of her parents, M. and Mme. Molay-Norrois, has the honor to inform you:
“That she contracted a marriage on the 25th day of May, 1897, with M. Albert Derize, formerly an officer of the municipality of Grenoble;
“That two children were the issue of this marriage, Marie Louise, born on the 10th of June, 1898; and Philippe, on the 18th of January, 1901;
“That on the 6th of last April, the plaintiff, previously authorized by her husband to open in his absence all telegrams and telegraphed letters addressed to him, was thus compelled to take notice of a letter of this sort sent to M. Derize by Mlle. A. de S——; that this letter, as much by the words themselves, as by allusions to occurrences and a previous correspondence, contained the manifest proof of the existence of a liaison between the two correspondents;
“That M. Derize, upon being asked to give explanations, immediately confessed his guilty passion, and by his offensive attitude forced his wife to leave their home with her children and to go to her parents’ home at Grenoble;
“That since that time, after a trip to Germany with his mistress, he has established himself in Paris in her neighborhood and continues to maintain his relations with her;
“That under these circumstances the plaintiff has determined to take steps to procure a separation from her husband:—with these grounds the plaintiff concludes, etc., etc.”
The legal forms for the interview of reconciliation followed and the date June, 1905, with the day left blank.
Philippe Lagier did not see his cases in the same light as his host, M. Tabourin, who thought only of formulas and remuneration. Lagier, prompted by intellectual curiosity rather than by sympathy, was interested in knowing the underlying details; the human conflicts that they represented interested him, without changing his skepticism, which was the combined result of fundamental indifference, many dislikes, and the innate revolt of a disillusioned mind, cognizant of its own value, but unable to put it to its best use. He rose. Through the half-opened door, he saw the attorney assigning work to his assistants, and at intervals reassuring two embarrassed peasants, whom he was about to dispossess. Seated uncomfortably on a bench in the office, they seemed to be so impressed by his affable manners and his poor clothes that they hesitated to give full vent to their complaints and lamentations.
What was the good of disturbing him in his ant-like activity? Lagier went towards the window, resolved to await him patiently. At the approach of a group of litigants, who had reached the court house before the doors were opened, two pigeons who were pecking in the sunny square, flew away and perched on the trefoil of the pointed arches ornamenting the belfry of Saint André. The over-restored monument opposite him reminded Lagier of Albert Derize’s vehement invectives against architects; and, reading between the lines of the technical, obsolete expressions of the petition, he recalled the three actors of the drama which was soon to reach its conclusion before the amused magistrates. By a singular coincidence, all three had been factors of varying influence in his life.
Albert Derize was a college friend whom Lagier had chosen with that unerring instinct of youth, which, in later years, gives way to self-consciousness and hesitation. How brilliant was his career at the early age of thirty-nine! After graduating from the Charter School, he had gone to the Arsenal for a short time as assistant librarian. Faithful to his province while away, he had published a history of Lesdiguières, king of the mountains, in which the hard and cunning rogue of the 16th century stood out like the hero of a novel, and also a History of the Assembly at Vizille in 1789, which set forth in brief the spiritual and material conditions in Dauphiné on the eve of the Revolution. From that time fortune smiled on him. Despite his youth, the Academy awarded him the Grand Prix Gobert. A publisher, impressed by his self-confidence and success placed him at the head of a publishing enterprise in which he had long been stimulating interest in the best literary circles:—a monthly collection of biographies of great men, short, clear, eloquent and accurate and very cheap; by means of which he hoped to rouse young men from their apathy and to incite them by example to a more profitable use of their time. With that versatility of mind which is attracted by every great realization of life, Derize reserved for himself the treatment of some of the more pathetic and inspiring life stories, such as Pascal, Lavoisier, Marceau and Beethoven. In spite of this work, he continued to labor from year to year with tireless activity, on his “History of the Workman in Modern Life,” in six volumes, a splendid treatise on the development of unions, of machinery, of manual labor and of economic and moral conditions. He was also writing a “History of the Peasant in the 19th Century” in which he gave free rein to his love of the soil, of agricultural labor and of country life, inherited from a line of husbandmen ancestors, and in which he showed by the reconstruction of vanished communities, both French and foreign, and by comparison with new social units, the inspiriting force of inheritance and of family ties. This work was to consist of four volumes: the second had just appeared. Le Play, Fustel de Coulanges or Taine, would have welcomed with joy this disciple, who was already a master, because of his positive method, his erudition, his regard for facts, and Taine, the greatest artist of the three, would have rejoiced in the warmth of his style and the coloring of his pictures.
In reconsidering his friend’s successful career, Philippe Lagier, with the usual outcome of such dreams, began to think of his own achievements and concluded:
“He had luck. After all I am as able as he.”
His friendship, although deep and of long standing, was not quite free from envy. He had deplored his narrow horizon and limited environment too often not to be envious of the freer, broader existence that Albert Derize enjoyed. He was his friend’s equal in intellectual penetration, and was much quicker to perceive the ironical side of situations and characters, and to accept them at once at their true valuation. Because of the unexpected scope Derize gave to all subjects and observations, the contagious love of life which he spread about him, the inner flame which at all times flashed from his eyes, how indisputably did he relegate Lagier to the second place! And when one expected his enthusiasm to lead him into an error, an exaggeration or a false statement, he would right himself again as a careening boat with its sails too taut, by a skillful turn of the rudder, swings into its right course. A well-balanced mind and a passionate heart, one had to recognize him as a rare force with the power to enliven the hours by his presence, as his books animated them for his readers.
Philippe Lagier was interrupted in his impartial comparison by the entrance of M. Tabourin.
“I will be with you immediately, Chief. These people who were dispossessed were trying to retain their land.”
He was referring to the peasants in their blue blouses and he disappeared again to argue with them.
Philippe remembered his unpleasant surprise when he had heard of the engagement of Albert and Elizabeth Molay-Norrois. He himself, at that time, was hesitating about asking for the hand of the young girl of nineteen, whom he thought too young, too worldly, judging her by her clothes; too conventionally pretty with her pastel complexion, her wondering eyes and that well-rounded form giving promise of developing into too stout a woman. He counted upon time to dispel his indecision, and had then been suddenly obliged to quit the field—which is always difficult. He had, however, quickly dismissed this sentimental dream, and had even been able to propose a toast on the wedding day, when with the usual commonplaces, he made a speech to the young couple who were “made for each other.” Was not that reality outdone? This young man, already famous, whom the Molay-Norrois had been proud to welcome, despite the inferiority of his family, took with him to Paris a wife who was worthy of him and would help him in his easy ascent to success.
Why had not Lagier come first? Richer, of better family, a resident of Grenoble, what advantages he had to offer! He was constantly invited to the house. And Albert had come one fine day quite by chance. Fate willed it that Albert should always outstrip him. The petition for separation which carried his thoughts back, had revived his forgotten ill-will. He was tempted to rejoice at this misfortune, evidence of which would be filed on the following day. But then, less indulgent toward his own faults, he soon began a self-analysis.
“Am I going to betray him instead of defending him? Now, just what has happened? In the first days of their married life, I realized that Albert was not perfectly happy. Young girls are all too silly then to make men happy. In spite of our intimacy he never made the least allusion to any unpleasantness, but I guessed it—without regret. Yes, without regret: a man is not perfect. Then their horizon cleared. Observing the somewhat impersonal but delicate protection with which he surrounded his young wife, I gave no more thought to their happiness, and consented to be god-father to their second child—”
Irritated by these memories he opened the door and witnessed the departure of the two peasants, who were bowing to M. Tabourin, crushing their hats in their hands and thanking him again and again. For what were they thanking him? For having put them out of their homes? This devil of a man, not content with dispossessing them, exacted their gratitude for doing so!
“They quite understood,” said the lawyer, as he came back.
“Understood what?”
“That I have only their interests at heart.”
Philippe Lagier thought this was intended for a cynical pun, but in his office M. Tabourin always spoke seriously.
“Evidently!” he replied. “Here is your petition.”
“Thank you. The case will go through quickly. Are you going to defend it?”
“Wait. In the first place the specifications of residence must be modified. M. Salvage and I are willing to accept the recognition of the Grenoble Court in order to avoid any comments in Paris, but to make this change seem plausible, put M. Derize down as living at St. Martin d’Uriage, where he owns an estate which comes under this jurisdiction.”
“Certainly, certainly,” acquiesced the lawyer, reaching out his hand for the document.
“And then—”
But some new clients interrupted the conversation, and as they were of importance, M. Tabourin, hesitating, assumed a distressed expression. Philippe Lagier, generally so impatient, was sorry for him. He closed the door between the two rooms in order to enjoy undisturbed the tête-à-tête with the third person in the drama. Over the compromising initials in the petition, he wrote the whole name: “Anne de Sézery.” And he brought before him in a vision the young girl with brown hair, the shade of chestnuts that fall before the harvest, a face one could never forget, partly because of the disillusioned expression about the mouth in direct contrast to the bloom of her clear cheeks, and especially attractive because of the long narrow eyes flashing golden sparks, whose warm desires seemed to contradict the premature languor of her bearing. Slender, well-formed and strong, she gave the impression of having been born tired, as if she thought it useless to pursue too great aims. She lived with her father in a family château at Saint Ismier, a village built on the slope overlooking the wide valley of Grésivaudan. Her independent manners, her self-possession on horseback, her conversation which betrayed a wide and catholic taste in reading, and an almost mystical enthusiasm for secular subjects, these with her fortune, not big, but apparently comfortable, gave her a motley following of young men—of whom he had been one. For a long time he had been desperately in love with her: she singled him out for the intellectual qualities which delighted in stripping the world of its false poetry—and sometimes of its true poetry as well—and still he could not believe himself the favored one. Who could dare to believe himself favored? He had loved her in his own fashion, which implied reserve and caution, but had it come to a question of marrying her, he would have raised a thousand objections. But at that time such an obscure person would not have contented her, and, later, would he still have cared?
Albert Derize, whom he sometimes took with him on his visits, had become absorbed in the study of some ancient title-deeds at the château, where he found documents for his reconstruction of old Dauphiné. When Albert took part in the conversation, he treated the girl’s audacities and paradoxes with the candor and loyalty of a comrade to whom one does not feel bound to show any particular consideration. “He was already thinking of little Elizabeth Molay whom he had met in the street and did not know,” thought Philippe. “It was he who mentioned her to me and called my attention to her.”
On the death of her father, Anne de Sézery, entirely unprepared for it, found herself heiress of a ruined estate. The old man with senile cunning, had for a long time concealed the fact, presenting to the world a bold front, like a crumbling castle, with riddled walls and undermined foundations. The suitors gone, the château sold, the creditors almost entirely paid, she disappeared. In her pride she had told no one of her intention. It was rumored that she was earning her living in England by giving lessons in music and literature in an aristocratic boarding-school. Little by little she ceased to be mentioned. She had never returned to her native country. Ten years had passed. Was it really ten years? And if it were ten years, how could he recall so distinctly that disquieting face, at once so sad and so passionate? She must be thirty-two or thirty-three now. And here she was reëntering his life with all the serenity of the impressions of youth, sure of her power to enchant.
This strange phantom had chosen his best friend as a means to recall herself to his memory. How had Albert Derize found her again? By what sudden turn of things had he come at last to understand this strange combination of ardor and despondency? She had made herself remembered by the passion she inspired. Had not her golden eyes in those days demanded absolute love, love given without thought of sorrow, or of fear of risk? Among these green box-files, arranged methodically like the limited sentiments of civilized lives, Philippe Lagier, disgusted with his fate, longed for the inexorable happiness she offered.
He had the proof of this happiness with him. With a mechanical movement he took from his pocketbook the two letters and the telegram which he had received from his friend since the separation. They were two short notes, expressing no regret; but then, for regret Albert was too proud. In the first, Albert entrusted him with his defense, in case divorce proceedings were instituted; in the second, he begged him to keep Anne de Sézery’s name out of the trial, and to offer in exchange a complete submission to all Mme. Derize’s demands as to the custody of the children. By a strange contradiction he had subordinated all his family ties to this new passion, and wished to keep quiet the name of the girl whom he did not wish to compromise, because he had no intention of marrying her: it seemed as if he had decided henceforth to live without the pale of law and society. That very morning, informed of the difficulties which would attend his proposition, he had wired that he would arrive with the evening express, and gave his mother’s address on the Boulevard des Adieux.
Such were the three actors. To reconstruct the drama, it would perhaps suffice to read the evidence alluded to in the petition. When M. Tabourin reappeared, Philippe, whose imagination was over-stimulated, demanded:
“What about the letter in question?”
“I have not received it. It will be sent to you at the proper time.”
“Good. Now may I give you a message I have for you?”
“I am at your service.”
“Do you want to add to the scandal?”
“What scandal?”
“There is a third person mixed up in this affair.”
“Nobody knows her. I do not even know her name myself.”
“You are wrong. To-morrow that name will be on everybody’s lips.”
“So much the worse.”
“Could we not, as is often done, agree upon another reason for separation? We will accept it in advance. We shall not try to defend.”
“You know very well that the judge does not admit such an obvious disguise of mutual consent, and besides M. Salvage would not be a party to any deception.”
“Suppose I saw Mme. Derize?”
“Her lawyer tells me she does not wish to concern herself about it on any account.”
“Nevertheless I shall see her before the trial begins. Wait until to-morrow to draw up your petition. Do you agree?”
Maître Tabourin made a weak gesture of protest:
“You are unreasonable. The case must be begun.”
“Well, well,” replied Philippe, “it won’t run away from you. But now it is time for the opening of court. Come with me, I want to talk to you about one or two other cases.”
And they set out together for the court house.
As soon as they were gone, the clerks began to deliberate again:
“Did you notice M. Lagier’s anxious face?” questioned Vitrolle.
The romantic Malaunay hazarded:
“He is in love with Mme. Derize and can’t make up his mind to plead against her.”
The two others protested:
“What do you know about it?”
“One always loves the wife of one’s best friend.” The office boy’s psychology was pessimistic.
“For the time being he has set aside the petition,” Vitrolle concluded.
“It will not come up again,” said the little man. “What do you bet?” cried Dauras and Lestaque in chorus.
And they made bets on the Derize separation, as if it were a horse race. Malaunay alone bet the husband would win.
So the inevitable chorus, with its laughter, accompanied the tragedy of three people, a tragedy which these men of law were about to record with the aid of a set formula and with the usual professional indifference.