“You will allow me, monsieur, to hear no more of all this,” she said, retreating to her bedroom. “If the lady lives with you, I’ve made a mess of it; but I can’t help that,” resumed Ida. “Why does she come after Monsieur Ferragus every day?” “You are mistaken, mademoiselle,” said Jules, stupefied; “my wife is incapable--” “Ha! so you’re married, you two,” said the grisette showing some surprise. “Then it’s very wrong, monsieur,--isn’t it?--for a woman who has the happiness of being married in legal marriage to have relations with a man like Henri--” “Henri! who is Henri?” said Jules, taking Ida by the arm and pulling her into an adjoining room that his wife might hear no more. “Why, Monsieur Ferragus.” “But he is dead,” said Jules. “Nonsense; I went to Franconi’s with him last night, and he brought me home--as he ought. Besides, your wife can tell you about him; didn’t she go there this very afternoon at three o’clock? I know she did, for I waited in the street, and saw her,--all because that good-natured fellow, Monsieur Justin, whom you know perhaps,--a little old man with jewelry who wears corsets,--told me that Madame Jules was my rival. That name, monsieur, sounds mighty like a feigned one; but if it is yours, excuse me. But this I say, if Madame Jules was a court duchess, Henri is rich enough to satisfy all her fancies, and it is my business to protect my property; I’ve a right to, for I love him, that I do. He is my _first_ inclination; my happiness and all my future fate depends on it. I fear nothing, monsieur; I am honest; I never lied, or stole the property of any living soul, no matter who. If an empress was my rival, I’d go straight to her, empress as she was; because all pretty women are equals, monsieur--” “Enough! enough!” said Jules. “Where do you live?” “Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, monsieur,--Ida Gruget, corset-maker, at your service,--for we make lots of corsets for men.” “Where does the man whom you call Ferragus live?” “Monsieur,” she said, pursing up her lips, “in the first place, he’s not a man; he is a rich monsieur, much richer, perhaps, than you are. But why do you ask me his address when your wife knows it? He told me not to give it. Am I obliged to answer you? I’m not, thank God, in a confessional or a police-court; I’m responsible only to myself.” “If I were to offer you ten thousand francs to tell me where Monsieur Ferragus lives, how then?” “Ha! n, o, _no_, my little friend, and that ends the matter,” she said, emphasizing this singular reply with a popular gesture. “There’s no sum in the world could make me tell you. I have the honor to bid you good-day. How do I get out of here?” Jules, horror-struck, allowed her to go without further notice. The whole world seemed to crumble beneath his feet, and above him the heavens were falling with a crash. “Monsieur is served,” said his valet.