“Nobody told her, madame. I tell you again, that jealousy alone can inspire such calumny.”
“My attic! she thought to make me blush by reminding me that I once lived in an attic. Oh! I don’t blush for it; there is often more virtue, more refinement in an attic than in a boudoir! But do you mean to say that your wife is jealous of me?”
“Yes, madame, ever since I was unfortunate enough to tell her of the evenings which I used to pass with you and Ernest. If you knew how unhappy her jealousy makes me! Alas! the happy days of our married life passed very quickly!”
“Oh! I am very sorry for you, Monsieur Blémont. I pity your wife too, and I forgive her, for Ernest did not hear what she said. But I beg you, never let him know what your wife said!”
“Most certainly, I shall not be the one to tell him!”
“Oh dear! I wish I had not come to this ball. I should have done much better to stay at home.”
That fatal dance ended at last. Everybody went away. Ernest and his wife bade me good-night. I read in Marguerite’s eyes how glad she was to go.
My wife had gone. Who could have escorted her? Could she have gone home alone? One thing was certain, that she was no longer there.
Leberger came to me and said:
“Are you looking for your wife? She felt rather indisposed while you were dancing, and Dulac took her home. You know Dulac?—a tall fellow,—one of our amateur orchestra.”