"In that case, monsieur, don't try to go on with the lies you have told me, in which, by the way, I never placed much faith: for you are much more like a Limousin than an American. You were never an American. You came to Paris from Brives-la-Gaillarde, as your friend Jolibois has just told you. But what I am least able to forgive is your passing yourself off as a widower while your wife is still living! Fie, monsieur! to deny your wife is a shameful thing!"
Dupont saw that he must abandon falsehood.
"Mademoiselle," he faltered. "Well, yes—it is true—I admit it. But I was so anxious to make your acquaintance! And if I had told you I was married, you wouldn't have consented to receive me."
"Why not? On the contrary, it would have given me more confidence in you. I would have said: 'Here's a man who doesn't try to deceive me.'—But to pretend to be a widower—to attempt to play the bachelor here, while your poor wife is lamenting your absence, no doubt!"
"Oh, no! you may be quite easy in your mind as to that! My wife doesn't lament my absence in the least. She was one of the first to urge me to come to Paris, and to come without her."
"And to pretend to be a bachelor?"
"I don't say that she went so far as that; but when a woman allows her husband to travel without her, that means that she is willing he should play the bachelor; for, after all, my dear little neighbor, men aren't nuns, and you understand——"
"Enough, monsieur, enough! not another word on that subject!"
"Very good; I ask nothing better.—But I think I felt a drop of rain."
"Yes, it's raining. Let's go back to the restaurant; there will probably be room now."