Since we have pronounced the word modesty, and since we conceal
nothing, we ought to say that once, nevertheless, in spite of his
ecstasies, “his Ursule” caused him very serious grief. It was on one of
the days when she persuaded M. Leblanc to leave the bench and stroll
along the walk. A brisk May breeze was blowing, which swayed the crests
of the plaintain-trees. The father and daughter, arm in arm, had just
passed Marius’ bench. Marius had risen to his feet behind them, and was
following them with his eyes, as was fitting in the desperate situation
of his soul.
All at once, a gust of wind, more merry than the rest, and probably
charged with performing the affairs of Springtime, swept down from the
nursery, flung itself on the alley, enveloped the young girl in a
delicious shiver, worthy of Virgil’s nymphs, and the fawns of
Theocritus, and lifted her dress, the robe more sacred than that of
Isis, almost to the height of her garter. A leg of exquisite shape
appeared. Marius saw it. He was exasperated and furious.
The young girl had hastily thrust down her dress, with a divinely
troubled motion, but he was nonetheless angry for all that. He was
alone in the alley, it is true. But there might have been some one
there. And what if there had been some one there! Can any one
comprehend such a thing? What she had just done is horrible!—Alas, the
poor child had done nothing; there had been but one culprit, the wind;
but Marius, in whom quivered the Bartholo who exists in Cherubin, was
determined to be vexed, and was jealous of his own shadow. It is thus,
in fact, that the harsh and capricious jealousy of the flesh awakens in
the human heart, and takes possession of it, even without any right.
Moreover, setting aside even that jealousy, the sight of that charming
leg had contained nothing agreeable for him; the white stocking of the
first woman he chanced to meet would have afforded him more pleasure.
When “his Ursule,” after having reached the end of the walk, retraced
her steps with M. Leblanc, and passed in front of the bench on which
Marius had seated himself once more, Marius darted a sullen and
ferocious glance at her. The young girl gave way to that slight
straightening up with a backward movement, accompanied by a raising of
the eyelids, which signifies: “Well, what is the matter?”
This was “their first quarrel.”
Marius had hardly made this scene at her with his eyes, when some one
crossed the walk. It was a veteran, very much bent, extremely wrinkled,
and pale, in a uniform of the Louis XV. pattern, bearing on his breast
the little oval plaque of red cloth, with the crossed swords, the
soldier’s cross of Saint-Louis, and adorned, in addition, with a
coat-sleeve, which had no arm within it, with a silver chin and a
wooden leg. Marius thought he perceived that this man had an extremely
well satisfied air. It even struck him that the aged cynic, as he
hobbled along past him, addressed to him a very fraternal and very
merry wink, as though some chance had created an understanding between
them, and as though they had shared some piece of good luck together.
What did that relic of Mars mean by being so contented? What had passed
between that wooden leg and the other? Marius reached a paroxysm of
jealousy.—“Perhaps he was there!” he said to himself; “perhaps he
saw!”—And he felt a desire to exterminate the veteran.
With the aid of time, all points grow dull. Marius’ wrath against
“Ursule,” just and legitimate as it was, passed off. He finally
pardoned her; but this cost him a great effort; he sulked for three
days.
Nevertheless, in spite of all this, and because of all this, his
passion augmented and grew to madness.