Full resolution (JPEG) - On this page / på denna sida - Part III - XI
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226 THE CONFESSION OF A FOOL
I felt sure that she had a lover. Or else she was afraid
of my discovering her indiscretions.
So she was afraid of me, of me who crouched at her feet
like a dog, whose leonine mane she had clipped, leaving
him but a fringe like a horse’s ; who waxed his moustache
and wore up and down collars, to be better equipped for
the struggle with dangerous rivals. Her fear of me
increased my dread and stimulated my suspicions.
" This woman has a lover whom she is loath to leave, or
else she is afraid of retribution," I said to myself.
After endless discussions she wheedled a promise out of
me to stay away no longer than a year.
The will to live returned, and I eagerly finished a
volume of poems v.hich was to be published in the winter
following my departure.
Summer in my heart, I sang with fresh inspiration. I
sang of my beloved wife as she appeared to me on the
day of our first meeting, a blue veil fluttering from her
straw hat, a blue veil which became the flag which I
hoisted when I sailed into the stormy sea. One evening
I read this poem to a friend. Marie listened with pro-
found attention. When I had finished she burst into
tears, put her arms round me and kissed me.
A perfect actress, she played before my friend the part
of the loving wife. And the simpleton regarded me from
that day as a jealous fool whom heaven had blessed with
the sweetest of wives.
" She loves you, old boy," my friend assured me again
and again. And four years later he reminded me of the
scene as a convincing proof of her fidelity.
"I swear to you at that moment she was sincere," he
reiterated.
Sincere in her remorse, perhaps ! Face to face with
my love which transformed the wanton into a madonna.
It was not very surprising.
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