“Parbleu! do you need to ask? I am a cuckold!”
Bélan said this in such an absurd tone that I could not resist the desire to laugh. While I indulged it, Bélan sprang to his feet and muttered in a feeling tone:
“I did not think that an old friend, a married man, would laugh like this at my misfortune.”
“I beg pardon, my dear Bélan,” I said, forcing him to resume his seat; “I beg pardon. You certainly cannot suppose that I intended to hurt you. But the fact is that you said that so suddenly that I thought it was a joke.”
“No, I swear to you that there is no joke about it. Mon Dieu! that wicked Armide! Such a well-bred woman, and nobly born! A woman who wouldn’t let me take off my shirt in her presence! I cannot stand it any longer, and I have come to consult you as to what I had best do. You are a lawyer and you will advise me.—Shameless creature!”
“Come, come! First of all, calm yourself, Bélan, and then, if you desire my advice, tell me what makes you think that your wife is deceiving you.”
“I have told you, my friend, of a certain marquis who used to pay court to my wife, and who afterward came in the kindest way to visit us. Oh! as to that, I must admit that he overwhelmed me with attentions. He came often——”
“It was you yourself who urged him to, so you told me.”
“Yes, that is true, because the Girauds had presumed to make remarks. Besides, could I ever have imagined? Perfidious Armide!—A woman who pinched and bit and scratched me on our wedding night, when I—you understand?”