"You are afraid of a lamb that you lead by the nose? You aren't serious!"
"You are a knave, and I won't stay with you unprotected!"
I felt sure that she had a lover. Or else she was afraid of my discovering her indiscretions.
So she was afraid of me, of me who crouched at her feet like a dog, whose leonine mane she had clipped, leaving him but a fringe like a horse's; who waxed his moustache and wore up and down collars, to be better equipped for the struggle with dangerous rivals. Her fear of me increased my dread and stimulated my suspicions.
"This woman has a lover whom she is loath to leave, or else she is afraid of retribution," I said to myself.
After endless discussions she wheedled a promise out of me to stay away no longer than a year.
The will to live returned, and I eagerly finished a volume of poems which was to be published in the winter following my departure.
Summer in my heart, I sang with fresh inspiration. I sang of my beloved wife as she appeared to me on the day of our first meeting, a blue veil fluttering from her straw hat, a blue veil which became the flag which I hoisted when I sailed into the stormy sea. One evening I read this poem to a friend. Marie listened with profound attention. When I had finished she burst into tears, put her arms round me and kissed me.
A perfect actress, she played before my friend the part of the loving wife. And the simpleton regarded me from that day as a jealous fool whom heaven had blessed with the sweetest of wives.
"She loves you, old boy," my friend assured me again and again. And four years later he reminded me of the scene as a convincing proof of her fidelity.