II
Six weeks later I made the discovery that two intruders had insinuated themselves into my wife’s confidence.
One of them was a dog, a King Charles, a blear-eyed little monster, which greeted me with deafening yelping and barking every time I entered the house, just as if I had been a stranger. I always disliked dogs, those protectors of cowards who lack the courage to fight an assailant themselves; but I particularly disliked this dog, because it was a relic of her first marriage, a constant reminder of her late husband.
The first time I protested, and ordered it to lie down, my wife reproached me gently, and made excuses for the little beast, which she called her late daughter’s legacy, pretending to be horror-struck at this suddenly revealed strain of cruelty in my disposition.
One day I found traces of the little monster on the drawing-room carpet. I punished it, and she called me a coward who ill-treated dumb creatures.
“But what else could I do, my dear? It’s no use arguing with animals; they don’t understand our language.”
She began to cry, and sobbingly confessed that she could not help being afraid of a cruel man....
And the monster continued to dirty the drawing-room carpet.
I decided to take the trouble to train the dog, and did my utmost to convince her that a little perseverance does wonders with an intelligent animal.
She lost her temper, and for the first time drew my attention to the fact that the carpet belonged to her.
“Take it away, then; I never undertook to live in a pig-sty.”
The carpet remained where it was, but the dog was watched more carefully; my remonstrances had some effect.
Nevertheless fresh catastrophes occurred.
In order to keep down our expenditure and save the trouble and expense of a kitchen fire, we decided to have a cold supper in the evening. Entering the kitchen accidentally on one occasion, I was amazed to find a roaring fire and the maid engaged in frying veal cutlets.
“Who are these cutlets for?”
“For the dog, sir.”
My wife joined us.
“My dear girl——”
“Excuse me, I paid for them!”
“But I have to be content with a cold supper! I fare worse than your dog.... And I, too, pay.”
She paid!
Henceforth the dog was looked upon as a martyr. Marie and a friend, a brand-new friend, adopted the habit of worshipping the beast, which they had decorated with a blue ribbon, behind locked doors. And the dear friend heaved a sigh at the thought of so much human malice incarnate in my detestable person.
An irrepressible hatred for this interloper who was everywhere in my way, took possession of me. My wife, with a down pillow and some blankets, made a bed for it which obstructed my way whenever I wanted to say good-morning or good-night to her. And on every Saturday, the day I looked forward to through a week of toil, counting on a pleasant evening with her alone when, undisturbed, we could talk of the past and make plans for the future, she spent three hours with her friend in the kitchen; the maid made up a blazing fire; the whole place was turned upside down—and why? Because Saturday was the monster’s tub-day.
“Don’t you think you are treating me heartlessly, cruelly?”
“How dare you call her heartless?” exclaimed the friend. “A gentler soul never breathed. Why, she doesn’t even shrink from sacrificing her own and her husband’s happiness to a poor forsaken animal!”
Some little time after I sat down to a dinner which was below criticism.
For some time past the food which was sent in daily from a neighbouring restaurant had been steadily deteriorating, but my beloved wife, with her irresistible sweetness, had made me believe that I had grown more fastidious. And I had not doubted her word, for I always took her at her own valuation and looked upon her as the soul of truth and candour.
The fatal dinner was served. There was nothing on the dish but bones and sinews.
“What is this you are putting before me?” I asked the maid.
“I am sorry, sir,” she replied, “but I had orders to reserve the best pieces for the dog.”
Beware of the woman who has been found out! Her wrath will fall on your head with fourfold strength.
She sat as if struck by lightning, unmasked, shown up as a liar, a cheat even, for she had always insisted that she was paying for the dog’s food out of her own pocket. Her pallor and silence made me feel sorry for her. I blushed for her, and hating to see her humiliated, I behaved like a generous conqueror, and tried to console her. I playfully patted her cheek and told her not to mind.
But generosity was not one of her virtues. She burst into a torrent of angry words: My origin was very evident; I had no education, no manners, since I rebuked her before a servant, a stupid girl who had misunderstood her instructions. There was no doubt that I, and I only, was to blame. Hysterics followed, she grew more and more violent, jumped up from her chair, threw herself on the sofa, raved like a maniac, sobbed and screamed that she was dying.
I was sceptical, and remained untouched.
Such a fuss, and all about a dog!
But she continued to scream; it was a frightful scene; a terrible cough shook her frame, which since her confinement had grown even more fragile; I was deceived after all, and sent for the doctor.
He came, examined her heart, felt her pulse, and surlily turned to go; I stopped him on the threshold.
“Well?”
“H’m! nothing at all,” he answered, putting on his overcoat.
“Nothing?... But....”
“Nothing whatever.... You ought to know women.... Good day!”
If I had only known then what I know now, if I had known the secret, the remedy for hysteria which I have discovered since! But the only thing which occurred to me at the time was to kiss her eyes and ask her pardon. And that was what I did. She pressed me to her heart, called me her sensible child who should take care of her because she was very delicate, very weak, and would die one day if her little boy had not the sense to avoid scenes.
To make her quite happy I took her dog upon my knees and stroked its back; and for the next half hour I was rewarded with looks full of the tenderest affection and gratitude.
From that day the dog was allowed to do exactly as it liked, and it dirtied the place without shame or restraint. Sometimes it seemed to me that it did it out of revenge. But I controlled my temper.
I waited for a favourable opportunity, for the happy chance which would deliver me from the torture of a life spent in an unclean home....
And the moment arrived. On returning to dinner one day, I found my wife in tears. She was in great distress. Dinner was not ready. The maid was looking for the lost dog.
Hardly able to conceal my joy, I made every effort to comfort my inconsolable wife. But she could not understand my sympathy with her grief, for she realised my inward satisfaction in finding the enemy gone.
“You are delighted, I know you are,” she exclaimed. “You find amusement in the misfortunes of your friends. That shows how full of malice you are, and that you don’t love me any more.”
“My love for you is as great as ever it was, believe me, but I detest your dog.”
“If you love me, you must love my dog too!”
“If I didn’t love you, I should have struck you before now!”
The effect of my words was startling. To strike a woman! Carried away by her resentment, she reproached me with having turned out her dog, poisoned it.
We went to every police-station, we paid a visit to the knacker, and in the end the disturber of our peace and happiness was recovered. My wife and her friend, regarding me as a poisoner, or at any rate a potential poisoner, celebrated its recovery with great rejoicings.
Henceforth the monster was kept a prisoner in my wife’s bedroom; that charming retreat of love, furnished with exquisite taste, was turned into a dog’s kennel.
Our small flat became uninhabitable, our home-life full of jars. I ventured to make a remark to the effect, but my wife replied that her room was her own.
Then I started on a merciless crusade. I left her severely alone; and by and by she found my reserve unbearable.
“Why do you never come to say good-morning to me now?”
“Because I can’t get near you.”
She sulked. I sulked too. For another fortnight I lived in celibacy. Then, tired out, she found herself compelled to make friends. She took the first step, but she hated me for it.
She decided to have the troublesome interloper destroyed. But instead of having it done forthwith, she invited her friend to assist her in the enactment of a farewell farce, entitled “The Last Moments of the Condemned.” She went to the length of begging me on her knees to embrace the wretched little brute as a proof that I harboured no ill-will, arguing that dogs might possibly have an immortal soul and that we might meet again in another world. The result was that I gave the dog its life and freedom, an action which found its reward in her gratitude.
At times I fancied that I was living in a lunatic asylum, but one does not stand upon trifles when one is in love.
This scene, “The Last Moments of the Condemned,” was renewed every six months during the next three years.
You, reader, who read this plain tale of a man, a woman and a dog, will not deny me your compassion, for my sufferings lasted three times three hundred and sixty-five days of twenty-four hours each. You will perhaps admire me, for I remained alive. If it be true, however, that I am insane, as my wife maintains, blame no one but myself, for I ought to have had the courage to get rid of the dog once and for all.