“But, madame, it isn’t a lady, it’s a woman, quite a common woman.” “Ah, Justine, Lord Byron loved a fish-wife at Venice, Madame de Fischtaminel told me so.” And Caroline bursts into tears. “I’ve been pumping Benoit.” “What is Benoit’s opinion?” “Benoit thinks that the woman is a go-between, for monsieur keeps his secret from everybody, even from Benoit.” For a week Caroline lives the life of the damned; all her savings go to pay spies and to purchase reports. Finally, Justine goes to see the woman, whose name is Madame Mahuchet; she bribes her and learns at last that her master has preserved a witness of his youthful follies, a nice little boy that looks very much like him, and that this woman is his nurse, the second-hand mother who has charge of little Frederick, who pays his quarterly school-bills, and through whose hands pass the twelve hundred or two thousand francs which Adolphe is supposed annually to lose at cards. “What of the mother?” exclaims Caroline. To end the matter, Justine, Caroline’s good genius, proves to her that M’lle Suzanne Beauminet, formerly a grisette and somewhat later Madame Sainte-Suzanne, died at the hospital, or else that she has made her fortune, or else, again, that her place in society is so low there is no danger of madame’s ever meeting her. Caroline breathes again: the dirk has been drawn from her heart, she is quite happy; but she had no children but daughters, and would like a boy. This little drama of unjust suspicions, this comedy of the conjectures to which Mother Mahuchet gives rise, these phases of a causeless jealousy, are laid down here as the type of a situation, the varieties of which are as innumerable as characters, grades and sorts. This source of petty troubles is pointed out here, in order that women seated upon the river’s bank may contemplate in it the course of their own married life, following its ascent or descent, recalling their own adventures to mind, their untold disasters, the foibles which caused their errors, and the peculiar fatalities to which were due an instant of frenzy, a moment of unnecessary despair, or sufferings which they might have spared themselves, happy in their self-delusions. This vexation has a corollary in the following, one which is much more serious and often without remedy, especially when its root lies among vices of another kind, and which do not concern us, for, in this work, women are invariably esteemed honest--until the end. THE DOMESTIC TYRANT. “My dear Caroline,” says Adolphe one day to his wife, “are you satisfied with Justine?” “Yes, dear, quite so.” “Don’t you think she speaks to you rather impertinently?” “Do you suppose I would notice a maid? But it seems _you_ notice her!” “What do you say?” asks Adolphe in an indignant way that is always delightful to women.