The Spice of Life

Before Marriage, Paul and Henrietta had loved each other chastely in the starlight.

At first there was a charming meeting on the shore of the ocean. He found her delicious, the rosy young girl who passed him with her bright umbrellas and fresh costumes on the marine background. He loved this blonde fragile creature in her setting of blue waves and immense skies. And he confused the tenderness which this innocent girl caused to be born in him with the emotion awakened by the lovely salt air and the vast seascape full of sun and waves.

She loved him because he paid her attention, because he was young and rich enough, genteel and delicate. She loved him because it is natural for young ladies to love young men who say tender words to them.

Then for three months they lived side by side, eye to eye and hand to hand. The greeting which they exchanged in the morning before the bath, in the freshness of the new day, and the adieu of the evening upon the sand under the stars, in the warmth of the calm night, murmured low and still lower, had already the taste of kisses, although their lips had never met.

They dreamed of each other as soon as they were asleep, thought of each other as soon as they awoke and, without yet saying so, called for and desired each other with their whole soul and body.

After marriage they adored each other above everything on earth. It was at first a kind of sensual, indefatigable rage, then an exalted tenderness made of caresses already refined and of inventions both genteel and ungenteel. All their looks signified lasciviousness, and all their gestures recalled to them the ardent intimacy of the bed.

Now, without confessing it, without realizing it, perhaps, they commenced to weary of one another. They loved each other, it is true, but there was nothing more to reveal, nothing more to do that had not often been done, nothing more to learn from each other, not even a new word of love, an unforeseen motion or an intonation, which sometimes is more expressive than a known word too often repeated.

They forced themselves, however, to relight the flame, enfeebled from the first embraces. They invented some new and tender artifice each day, some simple or complicated ruse, in the vain attempt to renew in their hearts the unappeasable ardor of the first days and in their veins the flame of the nuptial month.

From time to time, by working up their desire, they again found an hour of factitious excitement which was immediately followed by a disappointing lassitude.

They tried moonlight walks under the leaves in the sweetness of the night, the poesy of the cliffs bathed in mist, the excitement of public festivals.

Then one morning Henrietta said to Paul:

"Will you take me to dine at an inn?"

"Why, yes, if you wish."

"In a very well-known inn?"

"Certainly."

He looked at her, questioning with his eye, understanding well that she had something in mind which she had not spoken.

She continued: "You know, an inn (continued on next page) – how shall I explain it? – in a sophisticated inn, where people make appointments to meet each other?"

He smiled. "Yes. I understand, a private room in a large café?"

"That is it. But in a large café where you are known, where you have already taken supper – no, dinner – that is – I mean – I want – no, I do not dare say it!"

"Speak out, chérie; between us what can it matter? We have no secrets from each other."

"No, I dare not."

"Oh! Come, now! Don't be coy. Say it."

"Well – I wish – I wish to be taken for your mistress – I wish the waiters, who do not know that you are married, may look upon me as your mistress, and you, too – that for an hour you believe me your mistress in that very place where you have remembrances of---That's all! I myself will believe that I am your mistress. I want to commit a great sin – to deceive you – with yourself – there, I have said it! It is very bad, but that is what I want to do.

He laughed, very much amused, and responded:

"All right, we will go this evening to a very chic place where I am known."

• • •

It was almost seven o'clock when they mounted the staircase of a large café on the boulevard, he smiling, with the air of a conqueror, she timid, veiled, but delighted. When they were in a little room furnished with four armchairs and a large sofa covered with red velvet, the steward, in black clothes, entered and presented the bill of fare. Paul passed it to his wife.

"What do you wish to eat?" he said.

"I don't know; what do they have that is good here?"

"Allow me to order," he smiled; and turning to the waiter, he said:

"Serve this menu: Bisque soup, deviled chicken, sides of hare, duck, American style, vegetable salad and dessert. We will drink champagne – very dry."

The steward smiled and looked at the young lady. He took the card, murmuring: "Thank you, Monsieur Paul."

Henrietta was happy to find that this man knew her husband's name. They sat down side by side upon the sofa and began to eat.

Ten candles lighted the room, reflected in a great mirror, mutilated by the thousands of names traced on it with a diamond, making on the clear crystal a kind of huge cobweb.

Henrietta drank glass after glass to animate her, although she felt giddy from the first one. Paul, excited by certain memories, kissed his wife's hand repeatedly. Her eyes were brilliant.

She felt strangely moved by this suspicious situation; she was excited and happy, although she felt a little wicked. Two grave waiters, who never spoke, accustomed to seeing everything and forgetting all, entered only when it was necessary, going and coming quickly and softly.

Toward the middle of the dinner Henrietta was drunk, charmingly drunk, and Paul, in his gaiety, pressed her knee with his hand. She prattled now, boldly, her cheeks red, her look lively and dizzy.

"Oh, come, Paul," she said, "confess now, won't you? I want to know all."

"What do you mean, chérie?"

"I dare not say it."

"Nonsense!"

"Have you had mistresses – many of them – before me?"

He hesitated, a little perplexed, not knowing whether he ought to conceal his good fortunes or boast of them.

She continued: "Oh! I beg you to tell me; have you had many?"

"Why, some."

"How many?"

"I don't know. How can one know such things?"

"You did not count them?"

"Of course not!"

"Oh! Then you have had very many?"

"Yes."

"How many, do you suppose?---somewhere near---"

"I don't know at all, my dear. Some years I had many, and some years only a few."

"How many a year, would you say?"

"Sometimes twenty or thirty, sometimes only four or five."

"Oh! That makes more than a hundred women in all."

"Yes, something like that."

"How disgusting!"

"Disgusting? Why?"

"Because it is disgusting – when one thinks of all those women – naked – and always – always the same thing. Oh! It is truly disgusting – more than a hundred women!"

He was shocked that she thought it disgusting and responded with that superior air which men assume to make women understand that they have said something foolish:

"Well, that is curious! If it is disgusting to have a hundred women, it is equally disgusting to have one."

"Oh no, not at all!"

"Why not?"

"Because with one woman there is intrigue, there is love; while with a hundred women there is only lewdness. I cannot understand how a man can meddle with all those girls who are so filthy."

"Filthy? They are immaculate."

"What? In a trade like that?"

"It is because of their trade that they are immaculate."

"Ridiculous! When one thinks of the nights they pass with others! It is ignoble!"

"It is no more ignoble than drinking from a glass from which I know not who drank this morning, and that has been – er – less thoroughly washed – I assure you."

"Oh, be still; you are revolting."

"But why ask me then if I have had mistresses?"

For a moment there was silence. Then Henrietta said:

"Tell me, were your mistresses all young girls, all of them – the whole hundred?"

"Why, no – no. Some were actresses – some little working girls – and some were, that is to say, women of the world."

"How many of them were women of the world?"

"Six."

"Only six?"

"Yes."

"Were they pretty?"

"Yes, of course."

"Prettier than the young girls?"

"No."

"Which do you prefer, young girls or women of the world?"

"Women of the world."

"Oh, how depraved! Why?"

"Because I do not care much for amateur talent."

"Oh! You are abominable, do you know that? But tell me, is it very amusing to pass from one to another like that?"

"Yes, rather."

"Very?"

"Very."

"What is there amusing about it? Is it because they do not resemble each other?"

"I suppose."

"Ah! The women do not resemble each other?"

"Not at all."

"In nothing?"

"In nothing."

"That is strange! In what respect do they differ?"

"In every respect."

"In body?"

"Yes, in body."

"In the whole body?"

"Yes, in the whole body."

"And in what else?"

"Why, in the manner of – embracing, of speaking, of doing the least thing."

"Ah! And it is very amusing, this changing?"

"Yes."

A pensive glaze came over her eyes, and in a moment she said, with a voice that seemed to come from far away:

"And are men different too?"

"That I do not know."

"You do not know?"

"No."

"They must be different."

"Perhaps."

She remained pensive, her glass of champagne in her hand. It was full, and she drank it all at once without stopping for a breath. Her eyes were bright.

When the waiter again appeared, bringing in the fruits for the dessert, she was holding another glassful between her fingers. Looking to the bottom of the yellow, transparent liquid, as if to see there things unknown, she murmured with a thoughtful voice:

"Different ... in every respect ... over a hundred ... yes, I think I understand perfectly now ..."

Paul felt strangely uncomfortable to see the enigmatic smile upon her lips.

"I want everyone to think I am your mistress," she said.