We sat down, and I told my wife the story of my acquaintance with Ernest and Marguerite. I was obliged to begin some way back, in order to explain to her how it happened that I went up to the attic room. Eugénie, who listened at first with interest, became thoughtful, and her brow darkened. I finished my story, and still she was silent for a long time. I ate my dinner, but she did not eat. She continued to keep silent, and it vexed me at last.
“Why don’t you eat?”
“Because I am not hungry.”
“And why are you sulky with me?”
“Sulky! I am not sulky.”
“You don’t say a word; is that the way we ordinarily act when we are together?”
“I am thinking about your former neighbor, about your friend’s mistress, whom you used to go to see in her room under the eaves.”
“I went to see her when Ernest was there.”
“Oh! you were always sure to find him, were you?”
“Yes, for I seldom went except in the evening, and Ernest was almost always there then.”