"Does that story displease you?" he asked. "The best is yet to come. My dear Octave, the scene I have described took place on a certain night when the moon was shining brightly; while the two lovers were quarreling over their fair one and talking of cutting her throat as she sat before the fire, down in the street a certain shadow was seen to pass up and down before the house, a shadow that resembled you so closely that it was decided that it must be you."
"Who says that," I asked, "who has seen me in the street?"
"Your mistress herself; she has told every one about it who cared to listen, just as cheerfully as we tell you her story. She claims that you love her still, that you keep guard at her door, in short—everything you can think of; but you should know that she talks about you publicly."
I have never been able to lie, for whenever I have tried to disguise the truth my face betrayed me. Amour propre, the shame of confessing my weakness before witnesses induced me, however, to make the effort. "It is very true that I was in the street," I thought, "but if I had known that my mistress was as bad as she was, I would not have been there."
Finally I persuaded myself that I had not been seen distinctly; I attempted to deny it. A deep blush suffused my face and I felt the futility of my feint. Desgenais smiled.
"Take care," said he, "take care, do not go too far."
"But," I protested, "how did I know it, how could I know—"
Desgenais compressed his lips as though to say:
"You knew enough."
I stopped short, mumbling the remnant of my sentence. My blood became so hot that I could not continue.