The infamy, which it outraged him to see once more flowing back on him, had been brought about by himself alone. He experienced at the same time the dishonour of a crushing humiliation and the regret caused by the loss of his new-found happiness. Just when, at last, he had it in his grasp, it had for ever more become impossible, and that through the fault of this girl of the town, this harlot. He would have liked to strangle her. He was choking with rage. When they had got into the house he flung his hat on a piece of furniture and tore off his cravat.
"Ha! you have just done a nice thing—confess it!"
She planted herself boldly in front of him.
"Ah! well, what of that? Where's the harm?"
"What! You are playing the spy on me?"
"Is that my fault? Why do you go to amuse yourself with virtuous women?"
"Never mind! I don't wish you to insult them."
"How have I insulted them?"
He had no answer to make to this, and in a more spiteful tone:
"But on the other occasion, at the Champ de Mars——"