“Oh, you cry all night, ‘Mignonne! Mignonne! Petite Mignonne!’ You say: ‘You are love; you are darleen.’ And sometimes you say: ‘You are cute little sing.’ What is ‘cute little sing’? Somesing very passionnante I know. You have nevaire call me zat. And nevaire since we marry you call me Mignonne.”
Suddenly it all burst upon me, and I laughed. It did not strike me how utterly heartless my laugh must have sounded.
“So that’s it. You’ve found out all about Mignonne?”
“Yes, yes. Who is this petite Mignonne? I kill her. I kill myself. Tell me who she is. I go to her. I beg her not to take you from me. I ’ave you first. You belong to me. No one shall ’ave you but me. Tell me who she is.”
“I cannot tell you,” I said, avoiding her gaze.
“Zen it is true? You have maîtresse? You have deceive me! Oh, what a poor, poor girl I am! Oh, God, help me!”
She was sobbing bitterly. Now, I am so constituted that though I am keenly sensitive to stage sobs and book sobs, domestic sobs only irritate me. Outside I can revel in sentiment, but at home I seem to resent anything that goes beyond the scope of everyday humdrum. I am tear-proof (which is often a mighty good thing for a husband); so my only answer was to pull the blankets over my head, and say in a rough voice:
“For goodness’ sake, shut up and let’s have a little sleep.”
But there was going to be no sleep for me that night, and to have one’s sleep invaded would make a lamb spit in the face of a lion.
“Are you going to see her to-morrow?” she demanded tragically.