“I don’t care if she doesn’t; I have been invited to dance a great deal; but I insisted on dancing with Ernest too. I haven’t missed a quadrille yet.” “Are you enjoying yourself here?” “Pretty well. But I prefer to be at home in our chimney corner.” A partner came up and claimed Madame Ernest’s hand. I sauntered about the ballroom. My wife was dancing with a very good-looking little dandy. Bélan was standing opposite his wife, at whom he gazed with admiration, while tall Armide seemed vexed to have her husband for her vis-à-vis. Giraud joined me and said in a sly tone: “It seems to me that Bélan has shrunk since he was married; his wife crushes him.” “You are unkind, Giraud.” “Just look at the mother-in-law yonder. Either she has been weeping, is weeping, or is about to weep.” “Perhaps it is with pleasure.” “Oh, yes, she has a very merry expression! How Bélan must enjoy himself with those two women! It hasn’t brought him good luck, not inviting us to his wedding. By the way, the marquis is not with them. How does that happen?” “What marquis?” “Ha! ha! you pretend not to know, do you? It is everybody’s secret.--But I believe that my daughter wants something to eat.” Marguerite was right: the world is very unkind!--The quadrille came to an end. I was standing near my wife, although I was not speaking to her. Bélan stopped beside us, and, while passing the guests in review, pointed to Marguerite, saying: “There’s one of the prettiest women in the room!” “You have wretched taste, monsieur,” cried Eugénie. “How can anyone call that woman pretty? And what a style too! anyone can see what she is.” “What? What is she, pray? Do you know her?” Bélan instantly made haste to ask. “No, I don’t know her; but I know what she is, and----” “Madame,” I interposed, “why do you feel called upon to speak ill of a person who has never injured you?” “Never injured me? oh! you are pleased to say that, monsieur; but I may at least feel offended that Monsieur Leberger invites his friends’ mistresses to a ball that he gives for us.” “The deuce! what do you say? That little woman----” “Is Monsieur Firmin’s mistress.” “I was told that she was his wife.” “And she is his wife,” I said, with an angry glance at Eugénie. But she continued in an ironical tone: “No, Monsieur Bélan, that little woman, whom you are kind enough to call pretty, is not Monsieur Firmin’s wife; and monsieur knows that better than anyone, although he tells you the contrary.” “What? Do you mean that----” I did not listen to what Bélan said; I turned my back upon Eugénie. I did not believe that she was spiteful, but what she had just done disgusted me. At that moment I believe that I detested her.