And in her feeble voice she showed him decisively how useless and scandalous a duel and a trial would be. He would be a nine days’ newspaper sensation; his whole existence would be at stake, his peace of mind, his high situation at court, the honor of his name, and all for what? That he might have the laughers against him. “What will it matter?” he cried. “I shall have had my revenge.” “My pet,” she said, “in a business of that kind one never has one’s revenge if one doesn’t take it directly.” He paused and stammered. He was certainly no poltroon, but he felt that she was right. An uneasy feeling was growing momentarily stronger within him, a poor, shameful feeling which softened his anger now that it was at its hottest. Moreover, in her frank desire to tell him everything, she dealt him a fresh blow. “And d’you want to know what’s annoying you, dearest? Why, that you are deceiving your wife yourself. You don’t sleep away from home for nothing, eh? Your wife must have her suspicions. Well then, how can you blame her? She’ll tell you that you’ve set her the example, and that’ll shut you up. There, now, that’s why you’re stamping about here instead of being at home murdering both of ’em.” Muffat had again sunk down on the chair; he was overwhelmed by these home thrusts. She broke off and took breath, and then in a low voice: “Oh, I’m a wreck! Do help me sit up a bit. I keep slipping down, and my head’s too low.” When he had helped her she sighed and felt more comfortable. And with that she harked back to the subject. What a pretty sight a divorce suit would be! Couldn’t he imagine the advocate of the countess amusing Paris with his remarks about Nana? Everything would have come out—her fiasco at the Variétés, her house, her manner of life. Oh dear, no! She had no wish for all that amount of advertising. Some dirty women might, perhaps, have driven him to it for the sake of getting a thundering big advertisement, but she—she desired his happiness before all else. She had drawn him down toward her and, after passing her arm around his neck, was nursing his head close to hers on the edge of the pillow. And with that she whispered softly: “Listen, my pet, you shall make it up with your wife.” But he rebelled at this. It could never be! His heart was nigh breaking at the thought; it was too shameful. Nevertheless, she kept tenderly insisting. “You shall make it up with your wife. Come, come, you don’t want to hear all the world saying that I’ve tempted you away from your home? I should have too vile a reputation! What would people think of me? Only swear that you’ll always love me, because the moment you go with another woman—” Tears choked her utterance, and he intervened with kisses and said: “You’re beside yourself; it’s impossible!” “Yes, yes,” she rejoined, “you must. But I’ll be reasonable. After all, she’s your wife, and it isn’t as if you were to play me false with the firstcomer.”