Oreille felt quite triumphant, and obtained 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 dumbfounded with astonishment and rage; in the middle of the silk there was a hole as big as a sixpenny-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?"
She was choking with rage, and could hardly get out a word.
"You—you—have burnt—your umbrella! Why—you must be—mad! Do you wish to ruin us outright?"
He turned round, and felt that he was growing pale.
"What are you talking about?"