“No, they were simply talking about Monsieur Dulac. Armide thinks that he is a very handsome man, but for my part, I see nothing extraordinary about him. Then they cited you as an example; they said: ‘There’s a husband who is not jealous; look at him! Monsieur Dulac is his wife’s regular escort, and he doesn’t seem to notice it; he is a husband who knows how to live.’ And then they laughed, because, you know, when the women begin to pass us in review, there’s no end to it.—Well, well! What are you thinking about, my dear fellow? You are not listening to me.”
“I beg your pardon; I was thinking that the world notices things, which we, who are most interested in them, often do not notice at all.”
“You advise me to wait, to watch, and to be prudent; I will do it. If I should acquire proofs—Oh! then I shall explode, I shall be terrible, inflexible. Adieu, my dear fellow, I will leave you, for I see that you are preoccupied. Au revoir.”
Bélan took his leave, and I bade him adieu with no desire to laugh. It was strange what an effect had been produced upon me by what he had told me of the comments of his wife and her mother. They noticed that Monsieur Dulac was an assiduous guest at my house and very attentive to my wife; and I myself had not noticed it. That was because I saw no harm in it, whereas the world is so evil-minded! And calumny is such a delicious weapon. Figaro was quite right: “Calumny, always calumny!”
Although I knew that it was mere malicious gossip, I involuntarily passed in review Monsieur Dulac’s conduct. I recalled his earnest desire to be received at my house after the ball from which he had escorted my wife home.
I became sad and pensive; I was conscious of a discomfort, a feeling of disquietude which I had never known before. I wondered if that was the way in which jealousy made itself felt. But what nonsense! What was I thinking about? It was that Bélan, who had upset me with his own conjugal misfortunes. That his wife deceived him was possible, yes, probable; she had never loved him; but my Eugénie, who used to love me so much, and who loved me still, I hoped—although jealousy had soured her disposition to some extent! But that very jealousy was a proof of love. And she had ceased to be jealous. Why? Ah! Bélan need not have reported those remarks to me! He did it from malice.
To banish such thoughts, I left my study. I heard the piano; my wife was in the salon, and the sight of her would cause me to forget all the nonsense that had been passing through my mind. I entered abruptly. Monsieur Dulac was there, seated near my wife,—in fact, very near, as it seemed to me. At that moment, I admit that his presence caused me a very unpleasant sensation.
Dulac rose hastily and came toward me.
“Good-afternoon, Monsieur Blémont. I have brought madame a lovely fantasia on a favorite air of Rossini’s. Madame plays it at sight with such assurance and such taste!”
“Oh! you always flatter me, Monsieur Dulac.”