“Your duel is known,” he said, “but it is attributed to the quarrel you had at the card table. You are generally blamed, and people are sorry for your adversary. Dulac is not dead; indeed, it is thought that he will recover; but he is seriously wounded, and he will be in bed for a long while. I do not know how it happened that Giraud knew of your change of abode, and that you have moved here without your wife. He questioned the concierges, no doubt. He has been about everywhere, telling of it. People are talking; and everyone makes up his own story; the majority think that you made your wife so unhappy that she was obliged to leave you.” “So much the better; let people think that, and let them put all the blame on me; that is what I want. Only you and your wife know the truth, my dear Ernest; and I am very sure that you will not betray my confidence.” “No, of course not; although it makes me angry to hear people accuse you and pity your wife. If I were in your place, I am not sure that I should be so generous.” “But my children, my friend, my daughter!” “That is so; I didn’t think of them.” “What do I care for the blame of society? it will see little of me at present!” “I trust, however, that you are not going to become a misanthrope, but that you will try to amuse yourself, and try to forget a woman who does not deserve your regrets; to act otherwise would be inexcusable weakness.” “I promise to try to follow your advice.” “To begin with, you must come home to dinner with me.” I could not refuse Ernest, although solitude was all that I now desired. I went home with him. His companion overwhelmed me with attentions and friendliness; their children came to caress and to play with me. During dinner they did all that they could to divert my thoughts. I was touched by their friendship, but the sight of their domestic happiness, of that happy family, was not adapted to alleviate my pain; on the contrary, it increased it twofold. For I too had a wife and children! Ah! such pictures were not what I wanted to see; they broke my heart. What I wanted was a crowd, uproar, noisy amusements; I needed to be bewildered, not moved. I left my good friends early. Three days later I received a letter from Eugénie’s banker; he informed me that she was temporarily at Aubonne, near Montmorency. So I knew where my daughter was, and that did me good; it always seems that we are less distant from people when we know where they are. I remembered that an old kinswoman of Eugénie’s mother lived at Aubonne; she was probably living with her. I did not know whether she would remain there, but I determined to write to her at once.