"Let us choose our words, my dear M. Struboff. Once I professed attachment to Mlle. Mansoni."
"She loved you?"
"It is discourteous not to accept any impression that a lady wishes to convey to you," I answered, smiling.
"Ah, you know her!" he cried, bringing his fist down on the table.
"Not the least in the world," I assured him. "Her beauty, her charm, her genius—yes, we all know those. But her soul! That's her husband's prerogative."
There was silence for a moment, during which he still looked at me, his thick eyelids half hiding the pathetic gaze of his little eyes.
"My life's a hell!" he said, and laid his head between his hands on the table. I saw a shudder in his fat shoulders.
"My dear M. Struboff," I murmured, as I rose and walked round to him. I did not like touching him, but I forced myself to pat his shoulder kindly. "Women take whims and fancies," said I, as I walked back to my seat.
He raised his head and set his chin between his fists.
"She took me for what she could get out of me," said he.