"My dear Juliette," I answered somewhat provoked. "You have kept your terra cotta statue of Love, not so?"
"Certainly I have.... But what has that to do with this?... My terra cotta statue is very, very lovely. Whereas that thing there ... why really!... And then it's improper!... Besides, every time I look at the paintings of that fool Lirat I feel a pain in my stomach."
Before that I used to have the courage of my artistic convictions and I defended them with fire. But now it seemed puerile on my part to engage in a discussion of art with Juliette, so I contented myself with hiding the pictures inside a press without much regret.
Finally the day arrived when everything was in admirable order; everything in its place, the smallest objects resting smartly on the tables, console tables, windows; the stands decorated with large leafed plants; the books in the library within reach; Spy in his new niche and flowers everywhere.... Nothing was missing, nothing, not even a rose, whose stem bathed in a long thin glass vase standing on my desk. Juliette was radiant, triumphant; she repeated without end:
"Look, look again how well your little wife has worked!"
And resting her head on my shoulder with a tender look in her eyes and a genuinely agitated voice, she murmured:
"Oh, my adored Jean, at last we are in our own home, our own home, just think of it!... How happy we shall be here, in our pretty nest!..."
The next morning Juliette said to me:
"It has been a long time since you saw Monsieur Lirat. I don't want him to think that I keep you from visiting him."
It was true, nevertheless. It really seemed as if for the last five months, I had forgotten all about poor Lirat. But had I really forgotten him? Alas no!... Shame kept me from going to him.... Shame alone estranged me from him.... I assure you that I would have never hesitated to announce to the whole world: "I am Juliette's lover!"; but I had not the courage to utter these words in Lirat's presence.