We went to walk about the neighborhood. We did not admire the verdure, because it was freezing weather; but we discovered some lovely spots and views, which must have been delightful in summer; and some fields too, where it must have been very pleasant to roll about when the grass had grown. We returned and sat down in front of a snapping fire; one can warm oneself so luxuriantly in front of the huge fireplaces that we find in the country; they are the only things that our excellent ancestors had which I regret. We ate again, for we always return to that at last, and always with pleasure; then we embraced the child, the nurse, everybody, and returned to the cabriolet. It was almost five o’clock, and in winter darkness comes on early. At night, the cold seemed more intense. Eugénie and I sat close together. My cloak, which was very large, was wrapped around us both; we tried in every way to keep warm. Eugénie sat on my knee and drove; I made no objection; it was almost dark. Suddenly the horse stopped, and Eugénie and I concluded that we were off the road. I had only a very vague idea where we were; but the horse, finding that he was no longer guided by the reins, had turned aside, and was standing across the road, facing the ditch. We laughed over our plight and our distraction, which might have landed us in the ditch. But luckily our horse was not in love. I took the reins again, I steered the carriage into the right road, and we returned to Paris, thinking that it had been a very short day, and fully determined to go to see the nurse again. A few days after this visit to Livry, on returning home, I found Ernest in the salon talking with my wife. I had often urged him to come to see me, and he had never done so before. I was greatly surprised to find that my Eugénie was making herself very agreeable; I feared that she would treat him coldly at least. But I soon understood why she had not laid aside her usual gracious manner: Ernest had given his family name only, and I had not mentioned that to my wife. “Here is one of your friends, Monsieur Firmin, who has been waiting for you a long while,” said Eugénie when I appeared. “I have never had the pleasure of seeing monsieur before. I think that he was not at our wedding.” “That is true,” I said, taking his hand. “I confess that--that I forgot him. On that day a man is permitted to have a poor memory.” I was a little embarrassed. I dared not ask Ernest about his wife, for I was certain that Eugénie did not know that her visitor was the lover of my former neighbor. I began hastily to talk about the theatre and literature; I led Ernest to his favorite ground, and he told me all the news of the wings. But suddenly he exclaimed: “I was very sorry not to be at home when you called the day before yesterday. My wife told me that you waited for me a long while.” “Is monsieur married?” Eugénie instantly inquired. Ernest replied by simply bowing. Then he continued: