"A man must live," said Caspilier at last; "and the profession of
decadent poet is not a lucrative one. Of course there is undying fame
in the future, but then we must have our absinthe in the present. Why
did I marry her, you ask? I was the victim of my environment. I must
write poetry; to write poetry, I must live; to live, I must have money;
to get money, I was forced to marry. Valdoreme is one of the best
pastry-cooks in Paris; is it my fault, then, that the Parisians have a
greater love for pastry than for poetry? Am I to blame that her wares
are more sought for at her shop than are mine at the booksellers'? I
would willingly have shared the income of the shop with her without the
folly of marriage, but Valdoreme has strange, barbaric notions which
were not overturnable by civilised reason. Still my action was not
wholly mercenary, nor indeed mainly so. There was a rhythm about her
name that pleased me. Then she is a Russian, and my country and hers
were at that moment in each other's arms, so I proposed to Valdoreme
that we follow the national example. But, alas! Henri, my friend, I
find that even ten years' residence in Paris will not eliminate the
savage from the nature of a Russian.
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