She entered with the air of a woman who knew the house. As soon as she was in the drawing-room, she sank down on the sofa, and, covering her face with her hands, began to weep bitterly. He knelt down at her feet, and tried to remove her hands from her eyes, so that he might look at them, and exclaimed: “Irene, Irene, what is the matter with you? I implore you to tell me what is the matter with you?” Then, amid her sobs, she murmured: “I can no longer live like this.” “Live like this? What do you mean?” “Yes. I can no longer live like this. I have endured so much. He struck me this afternoon.” “Who? Your husband?” “Yes, my husband.” “Ah!” He was astonished, having never suspected that her husband could be brutal. He was a man of the world, of the better class, a clubman, a lover of horses, a theatergoer and an expert swordsman; he was known, talked about, appreciated everywhere, having very courteous manners, a very mediocre intellect, an absence of education and of the real culture needed in order to think like all well-bred people, and finally a respect for conventionalities. He appeared to devote himself to his wife, as a man ought to do in the case of wealthy and well-bred people. He displayed enough of anxiety about her wishes, her health, her dresses, and, beyond that, left her perfectly free. Randal, having become Irene's friend, had a right to the affectionate hand-clasp which every husband endowed with good manners owes to his wife's intimate acquaintance. Then, when Jacques, after having been for some time the friend, became the lover, his relations with the husband were more cordial, as is fitting. Jacques had never dreamed that there were storms in this household, and he was bewildered at this unexpected revelation. He asked: “How did it happen? Tell me.” Thereupon she related a long story, the entire history of her life since the day of her marriage, the first disagreement arising out of a mere nothing, then becoming accentuated at every new difference of opinion between two dissimilar dispositions. Then came quarrels, a complete separation, not apparent, but real; next, her husband showed himself aggressive, suspicious, violent. Now, he was jealous, jealous of Jacques, and that very day, after a scene, he had struck her. She added with decision: “I will not go back to him. Do with me what you like.” Jacques sat down opposite to her, their knees touching. He took her hands: “My dear love, you are going to commit a gross, an irreparable folly. If you want to leave your husband, put him in the wrong, so that your position as a woman of the world may be saved.” She asked, as she looked at him uneasily: “Then, what do you advise me?” “To go back home and to put up with your life there till the day when you can obtain either a separation or a divorce, with the honors of war.” “Is not this thing which you advise me to do a little cowardly?”