I had been married only a year, and I had already acquired all the ways of an old married man. I did not go out with my wife in the morning; she knew Paris as well as I did, and no longer needed my company; she went out to pay visits, to make purchases, or to walk; I either worked at home or went my own way. We almost always had someone to dinner, very frequently Raymond, who had become the friend of the family. It was not that I liked him any better than formerly; no, I did not look upon him as a friend in the least degree; but he had become necessary to me, he diverted my thoughts, he went about with my wife; he was always at our service if we needed him to take part in a game or to do an errand; he was really extremely obliging. Lastly, he had known Nicette, he was the only person with whom I could talk of her now and then; that reason alone was sufficient to lead me to seek his society. And yet, it was to him that I owed a part of my sorrow; but he had rendered me a service by showing Nicette to me as she really was. If she had listened to him, she must have listened to many others! In a word, his presence was often painful to me, and yet I constantly sought it--I always hoped that he would contradict what he had told me about her. As for my wife, she could not do without Raymond; he was with her almost every evening, while I went to my little bachelor apartment. They played together; Raymond played the flute a little, and my wife the piano; they both sang also. Raymond was an inferior musician, and my wife was never in time; together, they considered themselves very fine. And then, Raymond had a supply of compliments and gallant phrases which delighted my wife, who had plenty of self-esteem and coquetry, and loved to be told that she turned all the men's heads and that she was as witty as a demon. I confess that I had never been able to tell my wife that she had overmuch wit. Indeed, I had long since ceased to tell her that she was pretty; it seemed superfluous to me; I had told her so when I was courting her, and I could not keep saying the same thing forever. Such talk seems to me most futile; a husband and wife ought to prove their love to each other without having to pay each other compliments. But Pélagie, who did not know what to reply when you talked to her on a subject of real interest, knew enough to smile at flattery; and Raymond declared that her smile said many things. If I attempted to talk sensibly with her, she yawned; thereupon I left her, only too glad when Raymond was there to take my place.