Damaged Goods | Page 6

he noticed this
with annoyance, because he knew that his hair was in disarray and his whole aspect
disorderly; yet he dared not take a cab, because he feared to attract attention at home.
When he reached the sidewalk, he glanced about him to make sure that no one had seen
him leave the house, then started down the street, his eyes upon the sidewalk before him.
George had the feeling of the morning after. There are few men in this world of abundant
sin who will not know what the phrase means. The fumes of the night had evaporated; he
was quite sober now, quite free from excitement. He saw what he had done, and it
seemed to him something black and disgusting.
Never had a walk seemed longer than the few blocks which he had to traverse to reach
his home. He must get there before the maid was up, before the baker's boy called with
the rolls; otherwise, what explanation could he give?--he who had always been such a
moral man, who had been pointed out by mothers as an example to their sons.

George thought of his own mother, and what she would think if she could know about his
night's adventure. He thought again and again, with a pang of anguish, of Henriette.
Could it be possible that a man who was engaged, whose marriage contract had actually
been signed, who was soon to possess the love of a beautiful and noble girl--that such a
man could have been weak enough and base enough to let himself be trapped into such a
low action?
He went back over the whole series of events, shuddering at them, trying to realize how
they had happened, trying to excuse himself for them. He had not intended such a
culmination; he had never meant to do such a thing in his life. He had not thought of any
harm when he had accepted the invitation to the supper party with his old companions
from the law school. Of course, he had known that several of these chums led "fast"
lives--but, then, surely a fellow could go to a friend's rooms for a lark without harm!
He remembered the girl who had sat by his side at the table. She had come with a friend
who was a married woman, and so he had assumed that she was all right. George
remembered how embarrassed he had been when first he had noticed her glances at him.
But then the wine had begun to go to his head--he was one of those unfortunate wretches
who cannot drink wine at all. He had offered to take the girl home in a cab, and on the
way he had lost his head.
Oh! What a wretched thing it was. He could hardly believe that it was he who had spoken
those frenzied words; and yet he must have spoken them, because he remembered them.
He remembered that it had taken a long time to persuade her. He had had to promise her a
ring like the one her married friend wore. Before they entered her home she had made
him take off his shoes, so that the porter might not hear them. This had struck George
particularly, because, even flushed with excitement as he was, he had not forgotten the
warnings his father had given him as to the dangers of contact with strange women. He
had thought to himself, "This girl must be safe. It is probably the first time she has ever
done such a thing."
But now George could get but little consolation out of that idea. He was suffering
intensely--the emotion described by the poet in the bitter words about "Time's moving
finger having writ." His mind, seeking some explanation, some justification, went back to
the events before that night. With a sudden pang of yearning, he thought of Lizette. She
was a decent girl, and had kept him decent, and he was lonely without her. He had been
so afraid of being found out that he had given her up when he became engaged; but now
for a while he felt that he would have to break his resolution, and pay his regular Sunday
visit to the little flat in the working-class portion of Paris.
It was while George was fitting himself for the same career as his father--that of
notary--that he had made the acquaintance of the young working girl. It may not be easy
to believe, but Lizette had really been a decent girl. She had a family to take care of, and
was in need. There was a grandmother in poor health, a father not much better, and three
little brothers; so Lizette did not very long resist George Dupont, and he felt quite
virtuous in