“My husband,” replied the lady, swallowing a sob.
“The scoundrel!” said Aristide.
The lady shrugged her shoulders and looked down at her wedding-ring, which gleamed on a slim, brown, perfectly kept hand. Aristide prided himself on being a connoisseur in hands.
“There never was a husband yet,” he added, “who appreciated a beautiful wife. Husbands only deserve harridans.”
“That’s true,” said the Arlésienne, “for when the wife is good-looking they are jealous.”
“Ah, that is the trouble, is it?” said Aristide. “Tell me all about it.”
The beautiful Arlésienne again contemplated her slender fingers.
“I don’t know you, monsieur.”
“But you soon will,” said Aristide, in his pleasant voice and with a laughing, challenging glance in his bright eyes. She met it swiftly and sidelong.
“Monsieur,” she said, “I have been married to my husband for four years, and have always been faithful to him.”