"But, . . ."
"Go away, sir . . . go away . . . your presence makes me sick!" and Martha rudely pushed her husband towards the door of a closet which opened from the room.
"But . . . my wife!" . . . said the councillor, still expostulating.
"And before this young man, too! Heavens! what will he think of me?" cried Martha.
"But, what the devil! . . . it is you who . . ."
"To lie in ambush there traitorously, with a blunderbuss!" added Martha.
"But really . . . my wife!"—and the councillor, losing ground, was still pushed towards the door.
"A veritable assassin! worthy of an Italian bandit!" continued Martha, with horror.
"Nevertheless, wife, it was you who . . ."
"An Aulic Councillor to play such a part! You disgust me! . . . go out! . . . go out!" . . .