“This is too much, Lucile! You must prove what you have told me, and prove it instantly.”
“Oh! what a hurry you are in, monsieur! I never hurry, myself. If you want me to answer you, you must come to my room first of all; I must have my coffee, I am hungry.”
Lucile walked toward her house; I followed her, saying to myself every minute:
“I must restrain myself, I must be a man; and if she has told me the truth, I must still try to act with prudence.”
Lucile entered a house with a passageway at the side, near Rue de Crussol. She went up to the third floor, opened her door, and ushered me into a modestly furnished, but neat and well-kept room. She went to the fireplace, blew up her fire and prepared to boil her coffee. I seized her arm and stopped her.
“Will you leave me to suffer any longer, Lucile? I implore you, tell me all that you know about my wife!”
She looked at me; she seemed distressed.
“Mon Dieu! what a state you are in, Henri! If I had known it would have such an effect on you, I wouldn’t have told you. How stupid it is to feel badly over such a small matter! Your wife goes her way and you go yours—isn’t that the custom? You have mighty little philosophy!”
“I shall have enough when I am certain of my fate. Once more—speak!”
“Well, come to the window. Look: do you see that little low door over there?”