He paid two hundred francs in railway fares in order to live economically in a village, and shortly afterwards another two hundred francs in railway fares in order to live economically in Paris.
And to celebrate the arrival in Paris and the definite commencement of an era of strict economy and serious search for a livelihood, he spent a hundred francs on a dinner at the Maison Doree and two balcony stalls at the Gymnase.
In brief, he omitted nothing--no act, no resolve, no self- deception--of the typical fool in his situation; always convinced that his difficulties and his wisdom were quite exceptional.
In May, 1870, on an afternoon, he was ranging nervously to and fro in a three-cornered bedroom of a little hotel at the angle of the Rue Fontaine and the Rue Laval (now the Rue Victor Masse), within half a minute of the Boulevard de Clichy.
It had come to that--an exchange of the 'grand boulevard' for the 'boulevard exterieur'!
Sophia sat on a chair at the grimy window, glancing down in idle disgust of life at the Clichy-Odeon omnibus which was casting off its tip-horse at the corner of the Rue Chaptal.
The noise of petty, hurried traffic over the bossy paving stones was deafening.
The locality was not one to correspond with an ideal.
There was too much humanity crowded into those narrow hilly streets; humanity seemed to be bulging out at the windows of the high houses.
Gerald healed his pride by saying that this was, after all, the real Paris, and that the cookery was as good as could be got anywhere, pay what you would.
He seldom ate a meal in the little salons on the first floor without becoming ecstatic upon the cookery.
To hear him, he might have chosen the hotel on its superlative merits, without regard to expense.
And with his air of use and custom, he did indeed look like a connoisseur of Paris who knew better than to herd with vulgar tourists in the pens of the Madeleine quarter.
He was dressed with some distinction; good clothes, when put to the test, survive a change of fortune, as a Roman arch survives the luxury of departed empire.
Only his collar, large V-shaped front, and wristbands, which bore the ineffaceable signs of cheap laundering, reflected the shadow of impending disaster.
He glanced sideways, stealthily, at Sophia.
She, too, was still dressed with distinction; in the robe of black faille, the cashmere shawl, and the little black hat with its falling veil, there was no apparent symptom of beggary.
She would have been judged as one of those women who content themselves with few clothes but good, and, greatly aided by nature, make a little go a long way.
Good black will last for eternity; it discloses no secrets of modification and mending, and it is not transparent.
At last Gerald, resuming a suspended conversation, said as it were doggedly:
"I tell you I haven't got five francs altogether! and you can feel my pockets if you like," added the habitual liar in him, fearing incredulity.
"Well, and what do you expect me to do?" Sophia inquired.
The accent, at once ironic and listless, in which she put this question, showed that strange and vital things had happened to Sophia in the four years which had elapsed since her marriage.
It did really seem to her, indeed, that the Sophia whom Gerald had espoused was dead and gone, and that another Sophia had come into her body: so intensely conscious was she of a fundamental change in herself under the stress of continuous experience.
And though this was but a seeming, though she was still the same Sophia more fully disclosed, it was a true seeming.
Indisputably more beautiful than when Gerald had unwillingly made her his legal wife, she was now nearly twenty-four, and looked perhaps somewhat older than her age.
Her frame was firmly set, her waist thicker, neither slim nor stout.
The lips were rather hard, and she had a habit of tightening her mouth, on the same provocation as sends a snail into its shell.
No trace was left of immature gawkiness in her gestures or of simplicity in her intonations.
She was a woman of commanding and slightly arrogant charm, not in the least degree the charm of innocence and ingenuousness.
Her eyes were the eyes of one who has lost her illusions too violently and too completely.
Her gaze, coldly comprehending, implied familiarity with the abjectness of human nature.
Gerald had begun and had finished her education.
He had not ruined her, as a bad professor may ruin a fine voice, because her moral force immeasurably exceeded his; he had unwittingly produced a masterpiece, but it was a tragic masterpiece.
Sophia was such a woman as, by a mere glance as she utters an opinion, will make a man say to himself, half in desire and half in alarm lest she reads him too:
"By Jove! she must have been through a thing or two.
She knows what people are!"
The marriage was, of course, a calamitous folly.
From the very first, from the moment when the commercial traveller had with incomparable rash fatuity thrown the paper pellet over the counter, Sophia's awakening commonsense had told her that in yielding to her instinct she was sowing misery and shame for herself; but she had gone on, as if under a spell.
It had needed the irretrievableness of flight from home to begin the breaking of the trance.
Once fully awakened out of the trance, she had recognized her marriage for what it was.
She had made neither the best nor the worst of it.
She had accepted Gerald as one accepts a climate.
She saw again and again that he was irreclaimably a fool and a prodigy of irresponsibleness.
She tolerated him, now with sweetness, now bitterly; accepting always his caprices, and not permitting herself to have wishes of her own.
She was ready to pay the price of pride and of a moment's imbecility with a lifetime of self-repression.
It was high, but it was the price.
She had acquired nothing but an exceptionally good knowledge of the French language (she soon learnt to scorn Gerald's glib maltreatment of the tongue), and she had conserved nothing but her dignity.
She knew that Gerald was sick of her, that he would have danced for joy to be rid of her; that he was constantly unfaithful; that he had long since ceased to be excited by her beauty.
She knew also that at bottom he was a little afraid of her; here was her sole moral consolation.