“I was all the more vexed, because I had a box at the Vaudeville to give you, which perhaps would have entertained madame.” Eugénie bowed, and I tried to lead the conversation back to the theatre; but Ernest, having no suspicion of my apprehension, soon said to me: “Marguerite, who used to be so fond of the theatre, is beginning to tire of it; I take her so often!” At the name of Marguerite, my wife turned pale; then she said to me with a forced smile: “Can it be that monsieur is Monsieur Ernest?” “Yes, this is Monsieur Ernest Firmin, whom I have mentioned to you many times.” “Ah yes! I know, and whose _wife_ used to live in this house.” Ernest bowed again. I held my peace, but I felt that I was blushing, for Eugénie had said the word _wife_ in a tone of irony which hurt me. There was malice in it, and I could not understand how she could make malicious remarks to a person who had never injured her. Luckily Ernest, I thought, did not detect my wife’s meaning. He continued to talk of literature and theatres. Eugénie did not say another word, and her manner was as cold as it had been affable when I arrived. I carried on the conversation with Ernest. At last he rose and said good-bye; and, as he took leave of my wife, he offered to send her tickets sometimes if it would afford her pleasure. Eugénie replied that she did not care for the theatre; but that reply was made in such a contemptuous and discourteous tone that Ernest could not fail to be hurt by it. However, he simply glanced at me, half smiled, pressed my hand significantly and took his leave. I expected a quarrel or scene of some sort; for I was beginning to discover that when one is married, one must often expect something. Eugénie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and betook myself to my study. I passed the rest of the day without seeing her. But, at dinner time, annoyed that she did not leave her room, I decided to go in search of her. I found her sitting in a chair and weeping bitterly. I ran to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away. “What does all this mean, Eugénie? Why are you crying? What is it that causes your sorrow?” “You, monsieur.” “I?” “Ah! you make me very unhappy!” “I make you unhappy? I must confess that I did not expect such a reproach. When I try to gratify all your desires, all your tastes; when I have no other will than yours, I make you unhappy! Upon my word, women are most unjust! What would you say, pray, Eugénie, if you had a scolding, capricious, dissipated, or gambling husband?” “Mon Dieu! I am well aware, monsieur, that a husband thinks that he has done his duty when he has given his wife the bonnet and shawl that she wants; but for my part, I should prefer that you should have all the faults that you just mentioned, if you would be faithful to me.” “And you reproach me with being unfaithful! you address such a reproach as that to me!”