“Oh! yes, my friend, something is wrong; is your wife sick? or your children?”
“I no longer have a wife, I have no children with me; I am alone now.”
“What do you say?” cried Marguerite; “your wife?”
“She has deceived me, betrayed me; she is no longer with me.”
They did not say a word; they seemed thunderstruck. I rose and continued in a firmer voice:
“Yes, she has deceived me, that same Eugénie, whom I loved so dearly; you know how dearly, you who were the confidants of my love. It was only this morning that I obtained proofs of her perfidy. I am not used to suffering as yet; I shall get used to it perhaps; but I swear, I will do my utmost to forget a woman who is not worthy of me. I have been unfortunate in love; I shall at least find some relief in friendship.”
Ernest and Marguerite threw themselves into my arms; Marguerite wept and Ernest pressed my hand affectionately. At last I released myself from their embrace.
“It is late, my friends; forgive me for coming thus to disturb your happiness. Good-night, my little neighbor.—Ernest, a word with you, please.”
He followed me to a window.
“I am to fight to-morrow; you can guess with whom and for what reason. I need not tell you that there is no possible adjustment, although we are supposed to be fighting because of a dispute at cards. Will you be my second?”