“Well, the marquis finally almost lived at our house. He escorted my wife to the theatre, brought her home from parties and sang duets with her; he has a very fine voice, I admit. All that was agreeable to me, it was all right. Moreover, I said to myself: ‘My mother-in-law is with them.’ But, the day before yesterday, having returned home when I was not expected, I thought I would go to my wife’s room; she was locked into her boudoir with the marquis. What for? There is no piano in her boudoir. My friend, I remembered my bachelor adventures, all the husbands I have wronged; it was as if someone had struck me with a hammer. I ran to the boudoir and knocked like a deaf man; my wife admitted me and made a scene. The marquis seemed offended by my air of suspicion, and I concluded that I was mistaken. But it seems that when those infernal ideas once get into your head, they don’t leave it again very soon. I dreamed all night of Molière’s _George Dandin_, and _Le Cocu Imaginaire_. Ah! my dear Blémont, jealousy is a terrible thing! You know nothing about it and you are very lucky! And to think that it struck me like a pistol shot!” “My wife has taught me all the suffering that jealousy can cause, my dear Bélan, but go on.” “Well, yesterday I was to dine out, and my wife was to dine with one of her aunts. I left the house. On the way I remembered my adventure with Madame Montdidier--you remember, before we were married?” “Yes, I remember.” “She also had said that she was going to dine with one of her aunts, and I was the aunt. Ah! my friend, I believe that it brings bad luck to have injured others so much. In short, it occurred to me to go home and watch my wife. I hurried back and went into a passageway opposite our door. That also reminded me of my bachelor days. After five minutes I saw Armide come out and get into a cab in a very alluring négligé. My mother-in-law was not with her, although she had told me that they were going together. I followed the cab, at the risk of breaking a blood-vessel. It took my wife to the new boulevards, which were in the opposite direction from her aunt’s house. It stopped before a restaurant celebrated for its fried fish and gudgeons. Armide went in; a few seconds later I did the same; I put five francs in the waiter’s hand and ordered him to tell me with whom that lady was dining. He drew the portrait so accurately of the gentleman who was waiting for her that I could not help recognizing the marquis. He pointed out to me the room where they were, at the end of the corridor, and I ran there like a madman. I found the key on the outside, I rushed in like a lunatic, and I found myself in the presence of an artilleryman, who was toying with a grisette from the twelfth arrondissement.