“Very well. Now would you like it to be laid in Spain, Arabia, or France?”
“France!” exclaimed the prosecutor.
“I am French, you are French, he is French. You shall have a French story.”
Marillac leaned his forehead upon his hands, and his elbows upon the table, as if to gather his scattered ideas. After a few moments’ reflection, he raised his head and looked first at Gerfaut, then at Bergenheim, with a peculiar smile.
“It would be very original,” said he, in a low voice as if replying to his own thoughts.
“The story!” exclaimed one of the party, more impatient than the rest.
“Here it is,” replied the artist. “You all know, gentlemen, how difficult it always is to choose a title. In order not to make you wait, I have chosen one which is already well known. My story is to be called ‘The husband, the wife, and the lover.’ We are not all single men here, and a wise proverb says that one must never speak—”
In spite of his muddled brain, the artist did not finish his quotation. A remnant of common-sense made him realize that he was treading upon dangerous ground and was upon the point of committing an unpardonable indiscretion. Fortunately, the Baron had paid no attention to his words; but Gerfaut was frightened at his friend’s jabbering, and threw him a glance of the most threatening advice to be prudent. Marillac vaguely understood his mistake, and was half intimidated by this glance; he leaned before the notary and said to him, in a voice which he tried to make confidential, but which could be heard from one end of the table to the other:
“Be calm, Octave, I will tell it in obscure words and in such a way that he will not see anything in it. It is a scene for a drama that I have in my mind.”
“You will make some grotesque blunder, if you go on drinking and talking,” replied Gerfaut, in an anxious voice. “Hold your tongue, or else come away from the table with me.”