“Yes, yes, it is interesting.--He is always scolding me, because he says that I am ignorant of the proprieties. Bless my soul! it isn’t my fault; it seems to me that one may well talk to her friends about what interests her; I am so happy!” And Marguerite began to dance about the room; then she ran and threw her arms about Ernest’s neck and kissed him. She was as much a child as ever; but she was not yet eighteen. I prayed that she might retain that happy disposition for a long time to come. The time passes quickly when one is in pleasant company. I suddenly discovered that it was long past five o’clock; and my wife would be expecting me to dinner, and I was to take her that evening to see a new play! I bade my young friends good-bye. I promised to go again to see them and I urged Ernest to come upstairs when he passed my house. It rarely happened that I was not at home some time before the dinner hour; and that day we were to dine before five o’clock, in order to have plenty of time to go to the theatre. I found Eugénie at the window, anxious and impatient. “Where on earth have you been? It is almost half-past five; you never come home so late.” “My dear love, I met a friend,--one of my old friends.” “Should a man’s friends cause him to forget his wife?” “I didn’t think about the time.” “And you didn’t think of me, who have been waiting for you and who did not know what to think.” “Nonsense! come to dinner.” “But tell me, where have you been?” “I will tell you at the table.” We sat down, and I told my wife the story of my acquaintance with Ernest and Marguerite. I was obliged to begin some way back, in order to explain to her how it happened that I went up to the attic room. Eugénie, who listened at first with interest, became thoughtful, and her brow darkened. I finished my story, and still she was silent for a long time. I ate my dinner, but she did not eat. She continued to keep silent, and it vexed me at last. “Why don’t you eat?” “Because I am not hungry.” “And why are you sulky with me?” “Sulky! I am not sulky.” “You don’t say a word; is that the way we ordinarily act when we are together?” “I am thinking about your former neighbor, about your friend’s mistress, whom you used to go to see in her room under the eaves.” “I went to see her when Ernest was there.” “Oh! you were always sure to find him, were you?” “Yes, for I seldom went except in the evening, and Ernest was almost always there then.” “Almost always!” “Eugénie, I have told you the truth; you would do very wrong to believe anything else.” “But you seem to be so infatuated with this little Marguerite. You say that she is so pretty.” “In the first place, I did not say that she was pretty. But even if she were, that isn’t what I admired in her; it was her love, her deep affection for her lover.” “Oh, yes! that was what led you up to the eaves!” “Yes, it was. Why do you think ill of a person whom you do not know?”