I resumed my seat. The adventure was assuming a humorous aspect. And I waited for the husband, who took a long time fetching the wine. At last I heard him coming up the stairs, and the sound of his footsteps made me laugh, with one of those solitary laughs which it is hard to restrain. He entered with two bottles in his hands. Then he asked me: "Is my wife still asleep? You didn't hear her stirring--did you?" I knew instinctively that there was an ear pasted against the other side of the partition-door, and I said: "No, not at all." And now he again called out: "Pauline!" She made no reply, and did not even move. He came back to me, and explained: "You see, she doesn't like me to come home at night, and take a drop with a friend." "So then you believe she was not asleep?" He wore an air of dissatisfaction. "Well, at any rate," he said, "let us have a drink together." And immediately he showed a disposition to empty the two bottles one after the other without more ado. This time I did display some energy. When I had swallowed one glass I rose up to leave. He no longer spoke of accompanying me, and with a sullen scowl, the scowl of a common man in an angry mood, the scowl of a brute whose violence is only slumbering, in the direction of his wife's sleeping apartment, he muttered: "She'll have to open that door when you've gone." I stared at this poltroon, who had worked himself into a fit of rage without knowing why, perhaps, owing to an obscure presentiment, the instinct of the deceived male who does not like closed doors. He had talked about her to me in a tender strain; now assuredly he was going to beat her. He exclaimed, as he shook the lock once more: "Pauline!" A voice like that of a woman waking out of her sleep, replied from behind the partition: "Eh! what?" "Didn't you hear me coming in?" "No, I was asleep! Let me rest." "Open the door!" "Yes, when you're alone. I don't like you to be bringing home fellows at night to drink with you." Then I took myself off, stumbling down the stairs, as the other man, of whom I had been the accomplice had done. And, as I resumed my journey toward Paris, I realized that I had just witnessed in that wretched abode a scene of the eternal drama which is being acted every day, under every form, and among every class. THE AVENGER When M. Antoine Leuillet married the Widow Mathilde Souris, he had been in love with her for nearly ten years. M. Souris had been his friend, his old college chum. Leuillet was very fond of him, but found him rather a muff. He often used to say: "That poor Souris will never set the Seine on fire." When Souris married Mdlle. Mathilde Duval, Leuillet was surprised and somewhat vexed, for he had a slight weakness for her. She was the daughter of a neighbor of his, a retired haberdasher with a good bit of money. She was pretty, well-mannered, and intelligent. She accepted Souris on account of his money.