On the way to the
station, I noticed the window of a florist; I bade the driver stop, and
ran in to bear off some lilies for Berthe. The shop was so full of
wonderful flowers that, once among them, I found some difficulty in
making my choice. Hence I missed the train--and returned to my studio,
incensed by the delay. A letter for me had just been delivered. It told
me that on the previous morning Berthe had married my brother.
I could have welcomed a pistol-shot--my world rocked. Berthe lost,
false, Gregoire's wife, I reiterated it, I said it over and over, I
was stricken by it--and yet I could not realise that actually it had
happened. It seemed too treacherous, too horrible to be true.
Oh, I made certain of it later, believe me!--I was no hero of a "great
serial," to accept such intelligence without proof. I assured myself of
her perfidy, and burnt her love-letters one by one; tore her
photographs into shreds--strove also to tear her image from my heart.
Ah, that mocked me, that I could not tear! A year before I should have
rushed to the cafes for forgetfulness, but now, as the shock subsided,
I turned feverishly to work. I told myself that she had wrecked my
peace, my faith in women, that I hated and despised her; but I swore
that she should not have the triumph of wrecking my career, too. I said
that my art still remained to me--that I would find oblivion in my art.
Brave words! But one does not recover from such blows so easily.
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