When M. Antoine Leuillet married the widow, Madame Mathilde Souris, he had already
been in love with her for ten years.
M. Souris has been his friend, his old college chum. Leuillet was very much attached to
him, but thought he was somewhat of a simpleton. He would often remark: "That poor
Souris who will never set the world on fire."
When Souris married Miss Mathilde Duval, Leuillet was astonished and somewhat
annoyed, as he was slightly devoted to her, himself. She was the daughter of a neighbor, a
former proprietor of a draper's establishment who had retired with quite a small fortune.
She married Souris for his money.
Then Leuillet thought he would start a flirtation with his friend's wife. He was a good-
looking man, intelligent and also rich. He thought it would be all plain sailing, but he was
mistaken. Then he really began to admire her with an admiration that his friendship for
the husband obliged him to keep within the bounds of discretion, making him timid and
embarrassed. Madame Souris believing that his presumptions had received a wholesome
check now treated him as a good friend. This went on for nine years.
One morning a messenger brought Leuillet a distracted note from the poor woman. Souris
had just died suddenly from the rupture of an aneurism. He was dreadfully shocked, for
they were just the same age. But almost immediately a feeling of profound joy, of intense
relief, of emancipation filled his being. Madame Souris was free.
He managed, however, to assume the sad, sympathetic expression that was appropriate,
waited the required time, observed all social appearances. At the end of fifteen months he
married the widow.
This was considered to be a very natural, and even a generous action. It was the act of a
good friend of an upright man.
He was happy at last, perfectly happy.
They lived in the most cordial intimacy, having understood and appreciated each other
from the first. They had no secrets from one another and even confided to each other their
most secret thoughts. Leuillet loved his wife now with a quiet and trustful affection; he
loved her as a tender, devoted companion who is an equal and a confidante. But there
lingered in his mind a strange and inexplicable bitterness towards the defunct Souris, who
had first been the husband of this woman, who had had the flower of her youth and of her
soul, and had even robbed her of some of her poetry. The memory of the dead husband
marred the happiness of the living husband, and this posthumous jealousy tormented his
heart by day and by night.
