“Ah yes! I know, and whose wife used to live in this house.”
Ernest bowed again. I held my peace, but I felt that I was blushing, for Eugénie had said the word wife in a tone of irony which hurt me. There was malice in it, and I could not understand how she could make malicious remarks to a person who had never injured her.
Luckily Ernest, I thought, did not detect my wife’s meaning. He continued to talk of literature and theatres. Eugénie did not say another word, and her manner was as cold as it had been affable when I arrived. I carried on the conversation with Ernest. At last he rose and said good-bye; and, as he took leave of my wife, he offered to send her tickets sometimes if it would afford her pleasure. Eugénie replied that she did not care for the theatre; but that reply was made in such a contemptuous and discourteous tone that Ernest could not fail to be hurt by it. However, he simply glanced at me, half smiled, pressed my hand significantly and took his leave.
I expected a quarrel or scene of some sort; for I was beginning to discover that when one is married, one must often expect something. Eugénie did not say a word, but went to her room; I let her go and betook myself to my study. I passed the rest of the day without seeing her.
But, at dinner time, annoyed that she did not leave her room, I decided to go in search of her. I found her sitting in a chair and weeping bitterly. I ran to her and tried to kiss her, but she pushed me away.
“What does all this mean, Eugénie? Why are you crying? What is it that causes your sorrow?”
“You, monsieur.”
“I?”
“Ah! you make me very unhappy!”
“I make you unhappy? I must confess that I did not expect such a reproach. When I try to gratify all your desires, all your tastes; when I have no other will than yours, I make you unhappy! Upon my word, women are most unjust! What would you say, pray, Eugénie, if you had a scolding, capricious, dissipated, or gambling husband?”