“Deceived! come, come! explain yourself, madame, I beg you. What fable has somebody been telling you to-day?” “No one has been telling me any fables, monsieur. This time I have proofs, undeniable proofs. Do not think that I was looking for them; they fell into my hands by the merest chance. When I was trying to put your desk in place, something broke, the drawer opened and I saw--here, monsieur, this is what I found.” Eugénie opened a drawer and threw upon a table in front of me the eight portraits of women, which I had kept in my desk. I confess that at sight of them I was speechless for a few moments; but I recovered myself at last. “Why should the discovery of these portraits offend you? You know very well that I amuse myself by painting a little. When I was a bachelor, I made these miniatures. They are fancy faces, and I saw no harm in keeping them.” “Ah! they are fancy portraits, are they?” cried Eugénie; and she trembled with anger, and her eyes gleamed. “Monster that you are! I expected that reply. You forget that I saw one of the models yesterday! Look, monsieur, is this a fancy portrait? Oh! the likeness is too good for anyone to mistake it; it is a portrait of that woman who was with you yesterday.” She held out the portrait of Lucile. I had forgotten that it was among those which I had kept; and as it happened, it was one of the best likenesses. I did not know what to say; I was so vexed to appear like a culprit when I had done no wrong, above all, I was so irritated by my wife’s reproaches that I threw myself on a chair and said nothing more. Eugénie pursued me, with Lucile’s portrait in her hand. “You are confounded, monsieur! you cannot think of any more lies to tell; it’s a pity, you tell them so well! So this is the woman with whom you have had nothing to do for a long time, whom you don’t see now, and whom you never loved! But you have her portrait, you treasure it carefully, with those of seven other women whom you probably meet _by accident_, as you met that creature yesterday! Eight mistresses at once! I congratulate you, monsieur; you make a most virtuous and orderly husband! And this is the man who swore when he married me that he would never love any woman but me! that I alone would suffice to make him happy! Very well, monsieur, have eight mistresses, have thirty, if you choose, but I will not continue to live with a man who acts so. I no longer love you; I feel that I hate you, that I cannot endure the sight of you. I am going home to my mother. Then, monsieur, you will be free to receive your neighbors and all the women whose portraits you paint.”