disaster; it
delayed my operations for three days, since it filled his whole being
with a sense of abasement and a hope of gain, thereby suspending for the
time those emotions in him which had excited my curiosity. Clearly he
had unstinted visions of lucrative patronage, dreams, probably, of a
piece of coloured ribbon for his button-hole, and a right to try to
induce people to call him "Chevalier." He made Coralie a present,
handsome enough. I respected the conscientiousness of this act; my
friendship was an unlooked-for profit, a bonus on the marriage, and he
gave his wife her commission. But he seemed cased in steel against any
confidence; he trembled as he poured me out a glass of wine. He had
pictured me only as a desirable appendage to a gala performance; it is,
of course, difficult to realize that the points at which people are
important to us are not those at which they are important to themselves.
However I made progress at last. The poor man's was a sad case; the
sadder because only with constant effort could the onlooker keep its
sadness disengaged from its absurdity, and remember that
unattractiveness does not exclude misery. The wife in a marriage of
interest is the spoiled child of romancers; scarcely any is rude enough
to say, "Well, who put you there?" The husband in such a partnership
gains less attention; at the most, he is allowed a subordinate share of
the common stock of woe. The clean case for observation--he miserable,
she miles away from any such poignancy of emotion--was presented by
Coralie's consistency. It was not in her to make a bargain and pull
grimaces when she was asked to fulfil it. True, she interpreted it in
her own way. "I promised to marry you. Well, I have. How are you
wronged, _mon cher_? But did I promise to speak to you, to like you?
_Mon Dieu!_ who promised, or would ever promise, to love you?" The
mingled impatience and amusement of such questions expressed themselves
in her neglect of him and in her yawns. Under his locket, and his
paunch, and his layers, he burned with pain; Wetter was laying the
blisters open to the air, that their sting might be sharper. At last,
sorely beset, he divined a sympathy in me. He thought it disinterested,
not perceiving that he had for me the fascination of a travesty of
myself, and that in his marriage I enjoyed a burlesque presentiment of
what mine would be. That point of view was my secret until Wetter's
quick wit penetrated it; he worked day