“No, madame; I shall have the pleasure of dancing with you; then we will go.” “What, monsieur,” said Eugénie satirically; “you do not come when madame gives you leave?” “Madame, that is enough; not a word more, I beg you.” “Very good! that is all, monsieur. I will leave you. Dance with this woman; make her your mistress again as she used to be when she lived under the eaves, in the attics of your house! I am going home.” And she did go. But Madame Ernest had heard all; Eugénie had spoken loud enough to be sure of being overheard. Marguerite had turned red and pale by turns. She hung her head, and I thought that I could see tears glistening in her eyes. But she quickly recovered herself, wiped her eyes with her handkerchief, and tried to resume a smiling expression as she looked at her husband. I was thunderstruck and enraged at the same time. I did not know where I was; and in the midst of all that perturbation of spirit, I had to dance! “Well, it is your turn,” called Ernest. “Forward! what are you thinking about?” Luckily he had heard nothing. I took advantage of a moment when we were not dancing, to say to my partner in an undertone: “Madame, you heard what my wife said, I see. I do not ask you to forgive her; she is unpardonable, jealousy has disturbed her reason; but be good enough to believe that I am more hurt than you by what she has said.” “I confess, Monsieur Blémont, that I was so surprised, so shocked!--To call me your mistress! Great heaven! who could have said that I had been your mistress?” “I trust that you do not think it was anything that I have ever said to her, madame?” “Oh, no indeed, monsieur! But who can have told her that?” “Nobody told her, madame. I tell you again, that jealousy alone can inspire such calumny.” “My attic! she thought to make me blush by reminding me that I once lived in an attic. Oh! I don’t blush for it; there is often more virtue, more refinement in an attic than in a boudoir! But do you mean to say that your wife is jealous of me?” “Yes, madame, ever since I was unfortunate enough to tell her of the evenings which I used to pass with you and Ernest. If you knew how unhappy her jealousy makes me! Alas! the happy days of our married life passed very quickly!” “Oh! I am very sorry for you, Monsieur Blémont. I pity your wife too, and I forgive her, for Ernest did not hear what she said. But I beg you, never let him know what your wife said!” “Most certainly, I shall not be the one to tell him!” “Oh dear! I wish I had not come to this ball. I should have done much better to stay at home.” That fatal dance ended at last. Everybody went away. Ernest and his wife bade me good-night. I read in Marguerite’s eyes how glad she was to go. My wife had gone. Who could have escorted her? Could she have gone home alone? One thing was certain, that she was no longer there. Leberger came to me and said: