I reached our new home on Boulevard Montmartre, and the maid admitted me. The last furniture had been brought, but nothing was in place; whereas I expected to find the apartment all arranged and all in order.
What on earth had they been doing ever since morning! I asked the maid, who seemed distressed.
“Dear me, monsieur,” she replied, “I did not know where to put all these things.”
“What! hasn’t my wife been here with you all day?”
“Yes, monsieur, madame has been here. At first she worked hard arranging things; but after a little, as she was moving a piece of furniture——”
“She hurt herself?”
“Oh! no, monsieur; madame did not hurt herself; but she found something, I don’t know what, that made her unhappy; she cried, and then she went to her room, and she hasn’t touched anything since.”
The deuce! so there was something new! I wondered if I ever again should enjoy two days of peace! But only the day before we had been reconciled; and that very morning she had shown no signs of discontent. What on earth could have caused this new outbreak? Asking myself these questions, I went to Eugénie’s bedroom. I found her sitting in a chair, but her eyes were dry, and she seemed to be reflecting profoundly. On my arrival, she did not stir.
“What are you doing here, my dear love? It is impossible to find one’s way about here, and the maid says that you will not give any orders; what does it mean?”
“It means, monsieur, that you may arrange everything to suit yourself; for my part I will not lift a finger.”