“I never loved you. Do you hear that? Never, not even when I first married you! You are hideous, you are ridiculous and everything else that’s horrid. And everyone in the town knows that you are nothing but a ninnyhammer ... yes, a ninnyhammer....”
She had never heard this word save on the lips of Pouilly of the Dictionary, who had been in his grave for more than twenty years, and now it recurred to her mind suddenly, as though by a miracle. She attached no definite meaning to it, but as it sounded excessively insulting, she shouted down the staircase after him, “Ninnyhammer, ninnyhammer!”
It was her last effort as a wife. A fortnight after this interview Madame Bergeret appeared before her husband and said, this time in quiet, resolute tones, “I cannot remain here any longer. It is your doing entirely. I am going to my mother’s; you must send me Marianne and Juliette. Pauline I will let you have....”
Pauline was the eldest; she was like her father, and between them there existed a certain sympathy.
“I hope,” added Madame Bergeret, “that you will make a suitable allowance for your two daughters who will live with me. For myself I ask nothing.”
When M. Bergeret heard these words, when he saw her at the goal whither he had guided her by foresight and firmness, he tried to conceal his joy, for fear lest, if he let it be detected, Madame Bergeret might abandon an arrangement that suited him admirably.
He made no answer, but he bent his head in sign of consent.
Transcriber’s Note:
Hyphenation and spelling have been retained as appeared in the original publication except as follows: