“I have not the slightest suspicion of any other man who may pay you attention, but with the marquis it is quite a different thing. Before you married me he was deeply in love with you, and you with him; and the affair went a good way, for you were engaged to each other. It was only your father who broke off the engagement at the last moment because he heard the worst accounts of the character of his future son-in-law and of his disreputable conduct. First love always leaves deep impressions.” “No, my love, had I really loved the marquis I should not have married anyone else, nor should I have believed the accusations they cast at him. I should have waited until I was mistress of myself, and not have given my hand to another.” “And how long was the marquis in the box?” “About an hour.” “Very good, only an hour! Too short a time for a love appointment, and too long for a complimentary visit.” “But I could not send him away.” “When a woman desires it she can always make a man understand that his visit is inopportune, inconvenient, and that he must shorten it if possible.” “You teach me how I can do so.” “And then you chatted over your old love, and the cruel rupture of your separation.” “We only spoke of music and theatres.” “We may believe that. But I am going out to see if I can discover whether the marquis is still in Florence, and how long he intends to stay. And in the meantime, if he is barefaced enough to call here, I beg you will not receive him. This I demand and desire.” “No command is necessary; I know my duty.” “Not always. A visit of an hour in the box of a woman to whom the man was once engaged is an offence to her husband.” She, who was completely innocent, felt herself really offended by all the suspicions of her husband, and began to beat her foot on the carpet and to torture a volume of Coppée lying on the table with a paper knife. From anger and from opposition to the unmerited offence she had a firm idea that the Marquis of Bellavista would never have been so jealous, so foolishly jealous. Libertines know the hearts of women a little better. The husband went out of the house without a farewell word to his wife. He became a spy on the marquis, and followed his steps from café to café, at the club, amongst friends, dividing his projects, and tormenting himself in a hundred and one ways, one more absurd than the other. “Will you allow me, dear, to make an observation?” The question is asked by a man still in bed, and is addressed to his wife, who is near him under the same sheet, and is still sleepy. “About what?” “About the French song you sang yesterday at the countess’s.” “And what have you to say about it?” “That you pronounced the _u_ very badly, just as if it were _ou_.” “And have you nothing else to criticise?” “No. Now do not be angry; if your husband does not tell you of these things————”