Emmanuel Bove - Henri Duchemin and His Shadows

There are additional signs that make her pure in my eyes. Other men do not exist for her. I believe I can discern, from certain details, from certain attitudes, that they repulse her just as they do me. She often says exactly what I would say about a man were I a woman. She could not invent these feelings if she did not have them. And this is another reason why I love her so much.

A few times I asked her what she would do if I lost a leg. And she always responded ardently that she would love me just as much.

Please forgive me for providing such details but, when you want to prove a woman loves you, they are necessary.

There is something else that proves her love, and that is the way she admires me. She takes all my opinions for her own. Sometimes, when I have not finished voicing my opinion on a subject, embarrassed by the difficulty I have expressing myself, she will finish my thought differently from how I would have. As soon as she realizes this, she stops herself and is even ready to contradict herself until we agree. Is this not the mark of great love, to show such self-abnegation? Do you believe that if my adored Henriette did not love me she would follow my line of thinking in this way, step by step? No, of course not.

That’s not all. So many things at every moment of the day and night demonstrate her love. When we are lying next to each other, I am always the first to turn away. Candy, cake, fruit—she always goes without in order to offer them to me and, if I don’t take them, because I know how fond she is of them, she insists with so much love that I would be hurting her if I continued to refuse them. Nothing exists for her. She sees all of life through me. And when she arrives late for one of our dates, do not think it is because she is trying to be coy. She wants to imitate other women. She forces herself to be late because she is a woman and sometimes she is afraid she will lose me if she is not enough of one.

No, my Henriette, you did not do that, and yet...

One day she asked me if I ever had the feeling when I was away from her that I had not been as kind to her as I could have been. Without thinking, I said no. How can you detect in a question asked in an ordinary voice everything that someone expects from your answer? She became a bit sad. She did not say anything right then, but later in the evening she told me I was not kind, that I did not love her as much as she loved me. And she added that whenever she was away from me, she had the impression she had not pleased me enough.

Often she reminds me of things I said that I had forgotten and that she had thought about for a long time without my suspecting. Her sweet little brain works tirelessly to make me happy.

With her, as with little children, I never mention death. But I have the feeling if I asked her to die with me, she would. She led me to understand as much without pronouncing the word “death,” out of modesty.

Now that you are familiar with my girlfriend from what I have said about her, I ask you to believe the portrait I have painted of her. Everyone will only have good things to tell you about her. Love has not deformed my judgment. This is how she is. And although it may be difficult to believe the portrait that one person paints of another, it is less difficult than believing in true love.

* * *

You know her well now, or at least you know how much she loves me, and that is what is important. So I am going to tell you what happened.

This is what happened. Two months ago, I was not feeling well. It was a Friday. The day was a cold one, but the sun was shining in the blue sky. We’d had lunch at home. We were just finishing up when Henriette came over to me and kissed me.

“Darling, will you let me take a little walk?”

“Of course.”

“I’d like to buy a few things.”

“Shall I come along?”

“Why not, my darling?”

Then she changed the subject, busied herself with this and that and, picking up one of my books, sat down in an armchair. Jokingly, I said to her:

“You’re going to know that one by heart!”

Indeed, she only reads the books I have written, and since there aren’t many, she reads them over and over.

“That’s what I want, my love. I am jealous of your thoughts.”

I did not really understand what she meant, but I felt she was trying to make me understand that my work represented a rival to her.

I know that, even though she loved me very much, what she said was not completely sincere. She said it because women are supposed to be jealous of their husbands’ work. But I am indulgent. What is the use of taking offense at that? One shouldn’t ask too much of a woman. And then again, this lack of sincerity is also a kind of love.

She sat back down and continued reading. Although she admired my writing, she closed the book before the end of a chapter, stood up, and said to me:

“You are really amazing! You notice everything. Well, I’m going out, darling.”

“Don’t you want me to come with you?”

“Yes, of course. But wait, there is still something at the end of your book that I want to reread. You know, the story about the unfaithful wife. It’s amazing. Don’t tell me you haven’t been acquainted with a woman like her.”

“You’re mad, darling! You know how trustworthy I am.”

“Still, there’s something of you in this story. You are a bit like the husband.”

So she reread the story of the unfaithful wife. Then, getting up, she went to dress without saying anything. She came back a few minutes later.

“Good-bye, darling. I’ll be back around six o’clock. Be good and work well.”

“You don’t want me to come along?”

“How foolish you are! You are feeling poorly. You told me yourself you have a headache. It’s cold outside. You have a slight fever. Give me your hand. See, your hand is burning!”

“Yes, but if I dress warmly?”

“I don’t think it would be wise. A man like you must be well cared for.”

“You know I don’t like to stay home alone, darling.”

“But I’ll be back before six!”

And she left. It is obvious she did not want me to accompany her. But I pay this no mind. I understand that a woman can feel the need to be alone from time to time. It could even be that she truly did not want me to go out because I was feeling poorly. Perhaps she was thinking about my health, perhaps not. She wanted to be alone for no reason; she wanted to be alone for a variety of reasons. I know that just because one is hiding something, it does not mean that one is guilty. She could easily have been hiding the fact that she was going to see someone, meeting a girlfriend, without necessarily being unfaithful to me.

And so, I soon stopped thinking about her. Have you noticed that it takes several hours of absence before you think about the woman you love when she has gone out freely, happily, with her errands to run?

I sat down at my desk with the intention of writing. Do not think some vague suspicion was keeping me from working. I assure you I was not thinking about her. If I was incapable of doing anything at all it was more because I felt lazy than because I was worried.

To my great sadness it was then that, bored with my indolence, I decided to go out.

* * *

I shall always remember that radiant winter afternoon. No wind. A blue sky that grows dark before the evening papers come out. A pure sky where the sun seems to be an intruder. A white dust that surprises you because the previous day it was raining.

I was strolling calmly. It was pleasant to feel that my fever gave me permission not to hurry. Like a convalescent, I walked down a boulevard, taking interest in small things. Whenever our life is peaceful, whenever everything smiles on us, how agreeable it is to take interest in small things! You stop, you look. No one pays attention to you. These small things don’t really interest us. It’s our soul that is content with simple things, our soul that wants to find its youth again because it is happy contemplating small things, for no reason, simply not to think.