She was about to object, then reddened and kept silent.
I had absolute confidence in her. Despite the obscure process which had little by little undermined my tenderness, I could not have touched her with a suspicion without despising myself. Above all she impressed me as being unable to appeal to or even to hold the interest of a man of the world like Pierre Ducal. I did not see—I could not see—in his attentions, anything but a chance opportunity for instruction to supplement mine when I had discontinued. At any rate, my friend, without doubt a little abashed, treated her with a respect and a deference which was in noticeable contrast to his usual insolent manner toward women. I was grateful to him for it, and at the same time amused.
It was the time of year when the days are growing longer, and we enjoyed even our dinner by the light of the setting sun, the twilight being so beautiful that we deferred turning on the light as long as possible. On the evening of which I am writing, as I returned from my club, I was surprised not to see my wife in the salon. I called to her: she did not answer. Turning on the electric light I surprised her exhausted, stretched on a sofa, her head hidden in her hands, her body convulsed with sobs.
“My God,” said I to her, “what is the matter?”
She tried to put me off.
“Nothing, nothing,” she insisted. “Do not look at me.”
“I beg of you, I ought to know.”
Brusquely, without raising her head, she replied:
“I have dismissed M. Ducal.”
“Dismissed Ducal,” I repeated in amazement, as if she had perpetrated a most daring outrage.