The Reinvention of Love by Helen Humphreys Page B

it. Adèle and I could have continued for years without Victor finding out. Why did I grace him with more interest in his wife than I know he has? Victor is happy sequestered in his room, writing his book about the cathedral. That is his world. Adèle and I, and his children, we exist at the outer edge of that. There was no need to tell Victor. He would never have discovered us. We could have gone on for years, quite happily.
    Adèle will be furious with me. Victor will make her life impossible. Why did I think only of myself and not consider her?
    “I’m lying,” I say, desperate to turn this around. “It’s a joke. Ha ha.” I laugh weakly. It comes out sounding like a dog barking. A very small dog.
    “No. You’re not lying.” Victor is frowning, probably remembering all the times I have been alone with his wife. He slaps his forehead with his great paw. “I encouraged you,” he shouts. “I believed we were all friends.” A shadow passes over his face as he realizes perhaps the greatest indignity of all. “I sent you to see my play together!”

    Victor and I drink a bottle of wine in the parlour, using one of the packing cases as a table for our glasses.
    “I have never had a mistress,” says Victor. “I have only ever loved my wife.”
    This surprises me. I know that the great Victor Hugo has many female admirers. I would have thought he’d take full advantage of that adulation.
    “I’m sorry,” I say, although I am mostly sorry that 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