After shattering my portrait, Eugénie dropped into a chair as if exhausted by the transport of passion to which she had yielded. I fancied even that I could detect in her eyes some feeling of shame for what she had done. Thereupon I rose and gazed sadly at the shattered fragments of my portrait; then, glancing at my wife, I left the room without saying a word to her. I left the house. I have no idea where I went. I had not dined, but it was my turn not to be hungry. I could still see Eugénie trampling upon my portrait, and it seemed to me that she could no longer love me, that her love and her fidelity were attached to that image for which she no longer cared. I realized that I must be a man rather than a lover, for love does not last forever, but manliness sustains us throughout our whole life. While reasoning thus with myself, I sighed profoundly, for I still adored Eugénie; after all, jealousy is a proof of love, they say: my wife would come to herself and I would forgive her. But the breaking of my portrait, my work, which should have reminded her of the delicious sittings, when she was beside me--Ah! that was very wicked! and I should have difficulty in forgiving her for that. I walked a long while; at last I found myself in my old street; I believe that our legs have an instinct of their own, and that they lead us toward the places which they have often traversed. Suppose I should go to see Ernest and his wife, I thought, to divert my mind from my troubles? They were my only friends, and would gladly share my sorrows. However, I would not tell them of my woes, but I would forget them in their company. So I betook myself to Rue du Temple. The concierge told me that they were at home. I went up. Madame Ernest admitted me and ushered me into her room, saying: “By what miracle have you come in the evening, monsieur? It is seldom enough that we see you even in the morning. Ernest is at the theatre, but he promised to return early.” The little woman gave me a seat and then resumed her work. We talked, or rather she talked; she talked of Ernest, of his work, of his success, of their mode of life. I enjoyed listening to her. While she was speaking, I looked at her, and it seemed like one of the evenings which I used to pass in her attic room. Marguerite was still the same, and in my thoughts I loved to call her by that name still. Suddenly she stopped and said to me: “I am doing all the talking. I must be wearying you, am I not?” “Oh, no!” “But you don’t say anything.” “I am listening to you.” “Never mind, you are not usually silent like this. Are you unhappy?” “Perhaps so.” “A little falling out with your wife? I will wager that I have guessed it!” “That is true; we have had a little dispute.” “And that makes you unhappy. Ah! you are like me; when I have a dispute with Ernest, it makes me very sad! Luckily it seldom happens, and it doesn’t last long. I should die if it did!”