he was, however, Heurtebise loved and wooed her, and as he
happened to possess a small income, found no difficulty in winning her.

What pleased her in this marriage was the idea of wedding an author,
a well-known man, who would take her to the theatre as often as she
wished. As for him, I verily believe that her sham elegance born of the
shop, her pretentious manners, pursed up mouth, and affectedly uplifted
little finger, fascinated him and appeared to him the height, of
Parisian refinement; for he was born a peasant and in spite of his
intelligence remained one to the end of his days.

[Illustration: p025-036]

Tempted by a quiet happiness and the family life of which he had been so
long deprived, Heurtebise spent two years far from his friends, buried
in the country, or in out-of-way suburban nooks, within easy distance
of that great city Paris, which overexcited him even while he yet sought
its attenuated atmosphere, just like those invalids who are recommended
sea air, but who, too delicate to bear it in all its strength, are
compelled to inhale it from a distance of some miles. From time to time,
his name appeared in a newspaper or magazine at the end of an article;
but already the freshness of style, the bursts of eloquence, were
lacking by which he had been formerly known. We thought: "He is too
happy! his happiness has spoilt him."

However, one day he returned amongst us, and we immediately saw that he
was not happy. His pallid countenance, drawn features contracted by a
perpetual irritability, the violent manners degenerated into a nervous
rage, the hollow sound of his once fine ringing laugh, all showed that
he was an altered man. Too proud to admit that he had made a mistake,
he would, not complain, but the old friends who gathered round him
were soon convinced that he had made a most foolish marriage, and that
henceforth his life must prove a failure. On the other hand, Madame
Heurtebise appeared to us, after two years of married life, exactly the
same as we had beheld her in the vestry on her wedding day. She wore
the same calm and simpering smile, she had as much as ever the air of
a shopwoman in her Sunday clothes, only she had gained self-possession.
She talked now. In the midst of artistic discussions into which
Heurtebise passionately threw himself, with arbitrary assertions, brutal
contempt, or blind enthusiasm, the false and honeyed voice of his
wife would suddenly make irruption, forcing him t