The Reinvention of Love

I have told him.
    Victor swirls the wine around the inside of his glass. “Do you know the story of my wedding?” he asks.
    “No,” I lie. Adèle has told me of the whole miserable day, has said that she should have taken it as an omen of what was to come and run screaming from the church.
    “Adèle and I had played together as children. We had known each other all of our lives. It was natural that I would marry her. I loved her, and I know she loved me. But at our wedding, as we were saying our vows to each other, my brother Eugene jumped up and proclaimed
his
love for Adèle.” Victor pours himself another drink. He is drinking at twice the rate I am. “Naturally, I was shocked. I hadn’t known of his feelings, and I can’t think why he chose that moment to disclose them. It was terrible. He had to be dragged from the church and immediately imprisoned in the asylum.”
    “Terrible,” I say, nodding sympathetically.
    Victor slaps his glass down on top of the packing case, making me jump in my chair.
    “Why does this happen to me again?” he cries.
    “I’m not insane,” I point out, but he isn’t listening to me. He starts to pace up and down the room.
    “Why am I being tested in this way?” he says. “What is the point of this torment?”
    I don’t think that torment often has much of a point, but I keep my mouth shut.
    Victor is over by the window now. He is shaking the drapes. Great clouds of dust rise from them.
    “I must not be destroyed by this tragedy,” he shouts. “I must find a way to do battle with my enemy.”
    Here it comes, I think. Here comes the challenge to a duel. Here comes my final hour. But Victor, having finished wrestling with the drapes, strides back over to the packing case, drinks the rest of his wine, and sits down in the chair opposite mine.
    “How could you?”
    I don’t say anything.
    Victor buries his head in his hands and mumbles something I can’t hear.
    “What?”
    “She was my wife, Charles. My wife.” He raises his head and looks straight at me, his eyes bright with feeling.
    I decide not to comment on the fact that he has used the past tense in speaking about Adèle. What can it mean? Is he done with her? Will she be free to live with me now? I am exhilarated by the results of my confession. It was the right thing to do after all!
    Victor leans across and alarmingly takes one of my hands in both of his.
    “I will conquer this, Charles,” he says.
    “You will?”
    “Friendship can transcend adultery.”
    “It can?”
    “We will not let this affect us. We will go on as before.” He slaps me on the shoulder and I spill some of my wine. “We will speak no more of this. Your affair with my wife will end. You and I will be better friends than ever. I will have words with Adèle.”

    Portrait of Madame Victor Hugo by Louis Boulanger

    The next morning a package arrives at my house. It is from Adèle. I recognize her handwriting. I slip the string from the parcel, rip open the paper. There is no letter inside, just a folded piece of white lace. For a moment I don’t know what it is, but when I unfold it I can see that it is a veil. Adèle has sent me her wedding veil.

ADELE

    HE COMES TO THE HOUSE. We go to the gardens. We meet in the church. We meet at the hotel. I am always running, always late, skirts in hand and breathless.
    I lie to Victor. I lie to the children. I lie to myself. He’s just a friend. It is just a friendship that has blossomed out of season. Unexpected, but a gift, and something to treasure, not cut down.
    The lies only go so far. Victor is easy to deceive because he does not believe me capable of adultery. I tell my sister my secret, and I use her as my excuse. Victor does not question my new and fervent interest in spending time with Julie, although he does get annoyed if I leave the children too long in his care.
    The children accept whatever I tell them. They do not doubt me. They have no cause. I adore them and they know it, and they have little interest in anything beyond this.
    No, it is the lies I tell myself that are the trouble. Because, of course, I know that they are lies.
    Once, when I was young, I ran after my sister through the woods. The branches snagged my clothing and caught my hair. The hem of my skirts dragged in the mud. I felt both that I was moving as fast as a bird in the sky, and that I was trapped in the forest cage. When I burst out into a clearing, my sister still ahead of me, I threw myself onto