A FIT OF MADNESS

Even specialists in mental aberration had rarely met a case like that of Rambeau.

Henri Rambeau was a very strong fellow, nearing forty years of age. He loved to laugh and eat and drink, was possessed of a considerable fortune, and appeared to be gifted with an extraordinarily healthy and strong body and mind. He never used his mind much and certainly exhausted neither it nor his body.

Each morning he spent an hour and a half on horseback riding in the Bois; he devoted the afternoon now to visits, now to golf; in the evening he either went out with his wife to some social party or to the theatre. Latterly he had become accustomed, when his wife did not want him, to spend an evening watching the gambling at the club while smoking a cigar. He disliked all excessive emotions, and the few affairs of the heart that he was supposed to have had were not very absorbing. In fine, he led a most useless but healthy and pleasurable existence.

He never read or studied anything exciting; he had no ambition except to appear just what he was—a gentleman rather well off, well-fed, well-bred, well-dressed, up to date in every respect.

Curiously enough he went in for athletics more than an ordinary Frenchman. He was a little stronger than the average and looked like an American; always shaved completely, and had a well-balanced face lit up by ordinary blue eyes. He always tubbed in the morning and went in for half-an-hour’s Swedish gymnastics. He had been an idle, playful little boy; a young man of all the virtues; a husband of perfect respectability—the last person in the world to go wrong in any way!...

Madame Rambeau could never get over the surprise she felt one morning when she came into her husband’s room and found him in his pyjamas kneeling on the bed, holding in one hand a small English flag and in the other one of those little playthings in the shape of a wheel which make a creaking noise. As soon as he saw his wife he cried out: “Go away! Go away!” and hid himself under the clothes.

“What is the matter with you?” cried Madame Rambeau; “it is midday and you are not up yet, Henri—that is why I came in.” He looked at his wife in absolute fear, and to her amazement replied: “What does this lady want of me?”

“Do, do be sensible,” said the wife. “It is me! me, Germaine!” But after trying in vain for a quarter of an hour to make him realise his position, his wife had to say that Henri Rambeau had been struck by a fit of madness.

Curiously enough, he talked sensibly in a wrong-headed way. “I am not well!” he said. “My head’s clear and I would willingly drink my coffee, but I cannot remember where I am or who I am, or who this lady is who speaks to me so familiarly. It’s quite funny. I’m thirty-eight years of age, yet everything appears to me to be new; this apartment, this furniture, this pretty woman who pretends to be my wife and the servant who tells me he has served me since I was a child.

“It seems to me as if I have had a sleep for years or had died and come to life again: a strange life!... Please do not cry, madame; I am willing to admit that I married you. You are really charming, neither too fat nor too thin and very dark, and I have always liked dark women. You call yourself Germaine—I like the name too, but I cannot call you ‘Germaine’ like that, straight off; I ought to say ‘madame’ or ‘mademoiselle.’ Do I frighten you? I am sorry! You tell me that my name is ‘Henri Rambeau,’ no title, no distinction.... I do not mind this place here: it seems comfortable and I am perfectly at my ease.

“That old servant came in; he says he saw me born; smiles because he thinks I am drunk. I am not drunk. Perhaps I have had a little accident of memory. You will please go into the next room to let me get up; I cannot dress before you!”

After he had dressed and had come into the sitting-room he consented to see the doctor. The doctor took numberless notes and recommended Madame Rambeau to keep him as quiet as possible and humour him in everything.

At one o’clock they had déjeuner together; he became very affectionate to his wife in the course of the déjeuner. He said to her: “You please me infinitely, you know, my dear lady. I discover all sorts of beauty in you I had not dreamt of. Your voice awakens all kinds of feelings in me. I believe we are going to be very happy. Will you allow me to kiss your hand?”

In fine, he made love to his wife as he had done fourteen years before, and he was so charming, told her so many flattering things, that she began to blush as she had blushed in the days of their first meetings.

“I am so afraid,” he said, “of annoying you with my affection.”

“Do not be afraid,” replied Germaine, speaking with an eagerness she could hardly explain, “I, too, have a feeling as if you were partly unknown to me, but I do hope you will go on liking me. What are we to do this evening, because you know the Delaroches have invited us to dinner?”

“The Delaroches,” he repeated.

“Your cousins, you know,” said his wife.

“Oh, do not let’s go. Let’s stay here, and when the twilight comes I will read you some verses.... I never noticed before what a pretty foot you have. Please let us be together and keep the foolish world out; you know how I love you!”

It was evident that he only thought of his wife and had fallen as intensely in love with her as he had done fourteen years before. His desire, his admiration, his flatteries troubled her, moved her and finally won her as they had won her before.

He followed her with all sorts of little attentions, with a passion that seemed to know no respite and yet was always respectful. The poor woman did not know what to make of it, but the doctor had told her to humour him in every way, and really she found it easy to humour him! Without sharing his madness she became the young wife she had been fourteen years before. Henri’s devotion was so complete that it really won her heart as she had never been won.

After the first twenty-four hours he would not let her out of his sight; she had to insist in the morning and lock herself in her own room in order to get up and dress in peace. At midday she knocked again at her husband’s door. As soon as he saw her he cried: “Oh, here is the delightful lady! Who I am I do not know; I am not even curious, except that I am perfectly well and very happy, and will take my coffee if that old fool of a servant will bring it to me; then, mademoiselle, I am going to make love to you as soon as I get up; I will not allow you to leave me again.”

After a week Madame Rambeau declared that she was the happiest woman in France; she had no idea, she said, that a man could be so charming and so wonderful. And when the doctor returned, bringing other doctors with him, and had a long consultation, she was frightened almost to death. They proposed that Rambeau should be sent to an asylum, but she would not hear of it. To lose her husband and lover together was too much. No! no! She was determined to take care of him herself, and not trust him to any other hands.

The family doctor shrugged his shoulders; he could not explain such conjugal devotion, but he could see that Germaine was absolutely content and happy; it shone from her face and manner—she was delighted.

As for Henri, he seemed to begin his life again every twenty-four hours. He had no curiosity, he did not seem to want to go out, he absolutely refused to meet anyone who called on him; he wanted nothing but Germaine, and from morning to night and from night to morning they lived for each other.

This happiness continued nearly five weeks and then one morning Madame Rambeau, who had dressed herself with great care, came and knocked lightly at the door of her husband’s room and went in as usual; but now he looked at her coolly, carelessly: “Oh! it’s you!” he said. “What have you come to disturb me about?”...

Germaine could not help it, the shock was too dreadful; she burst into sobs, crying: “My God! My God! It’s terrible to think you’re cured—so soon!”

A CHINESE STORY