She sulks for hours and hours, her forehead stern, her mouth ugly. He follows her about everywhere, trembling and stammering excuses. "But, my pet, you know very well...." "Let me alone; you make me tired." The next day, naturally, Monsieur does not go out, and Madame exclaims: "Why do you wander about thus in the house, like a soul in torment?" "But, my pet...." "You would do much better to go out, to go hunting, the devil knows where! You annoy me; you unnerve me. Go away." So that he never knows what to do, whether to go or stay, to be here or elsewhere. A difficult problem. But, as in either case Madame scolds, Monsieur has taken the course of going away as often as possible. In that way he does not hear her scold. Ah! it is really pitiful. The other morning, as I was going to spread a little linen on the hedge, I saw him in the garden. Monsieur was gardening. The wind having blown down some dahlias during the night, he was refastening them to their props. Very often, when he does not go out before lunch, Monsieur works in the garden; at least, he pretends to be occupying himself with something or other in his platbands. It is always time gained from the ennui of the household. During these moments there are no scenes. Away from Madame, he is no longer the same man. His face lightens up, his eyes shine. Naturally gay, his gaiety comes to the surface. Really, he is not disagreeable. In the house, indeed, he rarely speaks to me now, and, though still bent on his idea, seems to pay no attention to me. But outside he never fails to address me a pleasant little word, after making sure, however, that Madame cannot be spying him. When he does not dare to speak to me, he looks at me, and his look is more eloquent than his words. Moreover, I amuse myself in exciting him in all ways, although I have taken no resolution concerning him. In passing by him, in the path where he was working, bent over his dahlias, with bits of string between his teeth, I said to him, without slackening my pace: "Oh! how hard Monsieur is working this morning!" "Yes, indeed," he answered; "these confounded dahlias! You see...." He invited me to stop a minute. "Well, Célestine, I hope you are getting accustomed to the place, now?" Always his mania! Always the same difficulty in engaging in conversation! To please him, I replied with a smile: "Why, yes, Monsieur, certainly; I am getting accustomed here." "I am glad to hear it. It is not bad here; really, it is not bad." He quite straightened up, gave me a very tender look, and repeated: "It is not bad," thus giving himself time to think of something ingenious to say to me. He took from his teeth the bits of string, tied them at the top of the prop, and, with legs spread apart, and his two palms resting on his hips, with a knowing look, and frankly obscene eyes, he cried: "I'll bet, Célestine, that you led a gay life in Paris? Say, now, didn't you?"