She had never spoken to him of his relations with Berthe. This sudden allusion embarrassed him immensely, without his exactly knowing why. He blushed and tried to stammer out some explanation.
“No, no, it does not concern me,” resumed she, still smiling and very calm. “Excuse me, it quite escaped me; I never intended to speak to you on the subject. You are young. So much the worse for those who are willing, is it not so? It is the place of the husbands to guard their wives when the latter are unable to guard themselves.”
He experienced a sensation of relief, on understanding she was not angry. He had often dreaded a coldness on her part if she came to know of his former connection.
“You interrupted me, Monsieur Octave,” resumed she, gravely. “I was about to add that if I purchase the next house, and thus double the importance of my business, it will be impossible for me to remain single. I shall be obliged to marry again.”
Octave sat lost in astonishment. What! she already had a husband in view, and he was in ignorance of it! He at once felt that his position there was compromised.
“My uncle,” continued she, “told me so himself. Oh, there is no hurry just yet. I have only been eight months in mourning; I shall wait till the autumn. Only, in trade one must put one’s heart on one side, and consider the necessities of the situation. A man is absolutely necessary here.”
She discussed all this calmly, like a matter of business, and he gazed on her regular and healthy beauty, on her pure complexion beneath her neatly arranged black hair. Then he regretted not having, since her widowhood, renewed the effort to become her lover.
“It is always a very serious matter,” stammered he; “it requires reflection.”
No doubt, she was quite of that opinion. And she spoke of her age.
“I am already old; I am five years older than you, Monsieur Octave—”