He was not loved, and in his heart of hearts he knew it, but he had had
his own way, and he loved himself. No one seemed to care for him, not
even his wife. How many years was it since they had roomed together? Yet
as he went towards his own home now, he recalled the day they were
married, and for the first time had drawn as near to each other as life
could draw. He had thought her wonderful then, refined, and oh! so rich
in life's gifts. His love had almost throttled her. She was warm and
bountiful and full of temperament. So it went for three years, and then
slowly he drew away from her until at last, returning from the backwoods,
he had gone to another room, and there had stayed. Very occasionally he
had smothered her with affection, but that had passed, until now,
middle-aged, she seemed to be not a room away from him, but a thousand
rooms away. He saw it with no reproach to himself. He forgot it was he
who had left her room, and had set up his own tabernacle, because his
hours differed from hers, and because she tossed in her bed at nights,
and that made him restless too.
Yet, if his love had been the real thing, he would have stayed, because
their lives were so similar, and the rules of domestic life in French
Canada were so fixed.
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