“There is no need to be as strong as Machault to like alcohol. Take our friend Molan, for instance,” the husband said, watching me as he pronounced the name. Then after a short silence he said: “Do you know what is really the matter with him?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “Perhaps he has overworked himself. He works harder than he drinks.”
“But he loves little Favier still more?” my questioner insisted, giving me another keen glance.
“He loves little Favier more still,” I replied in the same indifferent tone.
“Has this affair been going on for long?” the husband asked after a little hesitation.
“As long as La Duchesse Blue has been running. It is a honeymoon in its first quarter.”
“But his indisposition this evening when she is not acting?” he asked me without entirely formulating his question, though I completed it in my reply, giving it a cynical form which relieved my discomfort.
“Would it be an excuse to pass an evening with her and afterwards the night? I don’t know, I am sure, but it is very likely.”
I could see at these words, which I hope if Camille Favier ever reads these pages she will forgive, the face of the jealous husband brighten. Evidently the note of excuse sent by Molan at the last minute had not seemed to him genuine. He had found out that Madam de Bonnivet was annoyed at it, and asked himself the reason. Did he think that he had stumbled upon, between his wife and Jacques, one of those momentary quarrels which, more than constant attentions, denounce a love intrigue? He suspected that I was in my comrade’s confidence. He thought I knew the real reason of his absence, and his suspicion was soothed at the sincerity of my voice. As jealous people, being all imagination, mistrust themselves and reassure themselves at the same time, he assumed his most charming manner to say to Baron Deforges, who came in, having delayed a little while in joining us—
“Ah, well, Frederick, were you pleased with the dinner?”