Artists Wives | Page 7

or March sun; and like the plants in pots that are put out and
taken in at stated times, he made her live methodically, ever watchful
of a change of barometer or phase of the moon.
She remained like this for a long time, closed in by the four walls of the
conjugal garden, innocent as a clematis, full however of wild
aspirations towards other gardens, less staid, less humdrum, where the
rose trees would fling out their branches untrained, and the wild growth

of weed and briar be taller than the trees, and blossom with unknown
and fantastic flowers, luxuriantly coloured by a warmer sun. Such
gardens are rarely found save in the books of poets, and so she read
many verses, all unknown to the nurseryman, who knew no other
poetry than a few almanac distichs such as:
Quand il pleut à la Saint-Médard, Il pleut quarante jours plus tard.*
* When it rains on Saint Medard's day, It rains on for forty more days.
At haphazard, the unfortunate creature ravenously devoured the
paltriest rhymes, satisfied if she found in them lines ending in "love"
and "passion"; then closing the book, she would spend hours dreaming
and sighing: "That would have been the husband for me!"
It is probable that all this would have remained in a state of vague
aspiration, if at the terrible age of thirty, which seems to be the decisive
critical moment for woman's virtue, as twelve o'clock is for the day's
beauty, the irresistible Amaury had not chanced to cross her path.
Amaury was a drawing-room poet, one of those fanatics in dress coat
and grey kid gloves, who between ten o'clock and midnight, go and
recite to the world their ecstasies of love, their raptures, their despair,
leaning mournfully against the mantel-piece, in the blaze of the lights,
while seated around him women, in full evening dress, listen entranced
behind their fans.
This one might pose as the very ideal of his kind; with his vulgar but
irresistible countenance, sunken eye, pallid complexion, hair cut short
and moustaches stiffly plastered with cosmetic. A desperate man such
as women love, hopeless of life but irreproachably dressed, a lyric
enthusiast, chilled and disheartened, in whom the madness of
inspiration can be divined only in the loose and neglected tie of his
cravat. But also what success awaits him, when he delivers in a strident
voice a tirade from his poem, the Credo of Love, more especially the
one ending in this extraordinary line:
Moi, je crois à l'amour comme je crois en Dieu! *

* I believe in love as I believe in God.
[Illustration: p045-56]
Mark you, I strongly suspect the rascal cares as little for God, as for the
rest; but women do not look so closely. They are easily caught by a
birdlime of words, and every time Amaury recites his Credo of Love,
you are certain to see all round the drawing-room rows upon rows of
little rosy mouths, eagerly opening, ready to swallow the taking bait of
mawkish sentimentality. Just fancy! A poet who has such beautiful
moustaches and who believes in love as he believes in God.
For the nurseryman's wife this proved indeed irresistible. In three
sittings she was conquered. Only, as at the bottom of this elegiac nature
there was some honesty and pride, she would not stoop to any paltry
fault. Moreover the poet himself declared in his Credo, that he only
understood one way of erring: that which was openly declared and
ready to defy both law and society. Taking therefore the Credo of Love
for her guide, the young woman one fine day escaped from the garden
at Auteuil and went off to throw herself into her poet's arms.--"I can no
longer live with that man! Take me away!"
In such cases the husband is always that man, even when he is a
horticulturist.
For a moment Amaury was staggered. How on earth could he have
imagined that an ordinary little housewife of thirty would have taken in
earnest a love poem, and followed it out literally? However he put the
best face he could on his over-good fortune, and as the lady had, thanks
to her little Auteuil garden, remained fresh and pretty, he carried her off
without a murmur. The first days, all was delightful. They feared lest
the husband should track them. They thought it advisable to hide under
fictitious names, change hotels, inhabit the most remote quarters of the
town, the suburbs of Paris, the outlying districts.
[Illustration: p047-058]
In the evening they stealthily sallied forth and took sentimental walks

along the fortifications. Oh the wonderful power of romance! The more
she was alarmed, the more precautions, window blinds and lowered
veils, were necessary, the greater did her poet seem. At night,