Oreille was very angry, and peremptorily told his wife to get him a new one, a good silk one, for twenty francs, and to bring him the bill, so that he might see that it was all right.
She bought him one for eighteen francs, and said, getting red with anger as she gave it to her husband:
“This will last you for five years at least.”
Oreille felt quite triumphant, and received a small ovation at the office with his new acquisition.
When he went home in the evening his wife said to him, looking at the umbrella uneasily:
“You should not leave it fastened up with the elastic; it will very likely cut the silk. You must take care of it, for I shall not buy you a new one in a hurry.”
She took it, unfastened it, and remained dumfounded with astonishment and rage; in the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a six-penny-piece; it had been made with the end of a cigar.
“What is that?” she screamed.
Her husband replied quietly, without looking at it:
“What is it? What do you mean?”