infinitely comic.
Leuillet, in his turn, burst out laughing at the notion that he might have made a cuckold of Souris. What a good joke! What a capital bit of fun, to be sure!
He exclaimed in a voice broken by convulsions of laughter.
“Oh! poor Souris! poor Souris! Ah! yes, he had that sort of head—oh, certainly he had!”
And Mme. Leuillet now twisted herself under the sheets, laughing till the tears almost came into her eyes.
And Leuillet repeated: “Come, confess it! confess it! Be candid. You must know that it cannot be unpleasant to me to hear such a thing.”
Then she stammered, still choking with laughter.
“Yes, yes.”
Her husband pressed her for an answer.
“Yes, what? Look here! tell me everything.”
She was now laughing in a more subdued fashion, and, raising her mouth up to Leuillet’s ear, which was held towards her in anticipation of some pleasant piece of confidence, she whispered—“Yes, I did deceive him!”
He felt a cold shiver down his back, and utterly dumbfounded, he gasped.
“You—you—did—really—deceive him?”
She was still under the impression that he thought the thing infinitely pleasant, and replied.
“Yes—really—really.”
He was obliged to sit up in bed so great was the shock he received, holding his breath, just as overwhelmed as if he had just been told that he was a cuckold himself. At first, he was unable to articulate properly; then after the lapse of a minute or so, he merely ejaculated.
“Ah!”
She, too, had stopped laughing now, realizing her mistake too late.
Leuillet, at length asked.
“And with whom?”
She kept silent, cudgeling her brain to find some excuse.
He repeated his question.
“With whom?”
At last, she said.
“With a young man.”
He turned towards her abruptly, and in a dry tone, said.
“Well, I suppose it wasn’t with some kitchen wench. I ask you who was the young man—do you understand?”
She did not answer. He tore away the sheet which she had drawn over her head, and pushed her into the middle of the bed, repeating.
“I want to know with what young man—do you understand?”
Then, she replied with some difficulty in uttering the words.
“I only wanted to laugh.” But he fairly shook with rage: “What? How is that? You only wanted to laugh? So then you were making game of me? I’m not going to be satisfied with these evasions, let me tell you! I ask you what was the young man’s name?”
She did not reply, but lay motionless on her back.
He caught hold of her arm and pressed it tightly.
“Do you hear me, I say? I want you to give me an answer when I speak to you.”
Then, she said, in nervous tones.
“I think you must be going mad! Let me alone!”
He trembled with fury, so exasperated that he scarcely knew what he was saying, and, shaking her with all his strength, he repeated.
“Do you hear me? do you hear me?”
She wrenched herself out of his grasp with a sudden movement, and with the tips of her fingers slapped her husband on the nose. He entirely lost his temper, feeling that he had been struck, and angrily pounced down on her.
He now held her under him, boxing her ears in a most violent manner, and exclaiming:
“Take that—and that—and that—there you are, you trollop!”
Then, when he was out of breath, exhausted from beating her, he got up, and went over to the chest of drawers to get himself a glass of sugared orange-water, for he was almost ready to faint after his exertion.
And she lay huddled up in bed, crying and heaving great sobs, feeling that there was an end of her happiness, and that it was all her own fault.
Then, in the midst of her tears, she faltered:
“Listen, Antoine, come here! I told you a lie—listen! I’ll explain it to you.”
And now, prepared to defend herself, armed with excuses and subterfuges, she slightly raised her head all tangled under her crumpled nightcap.
And he, turning towards her, drew close to her, ashamed at having whacked her, but feeling intensely still in his heart’s core as a husband an inexhaustible hatred against that woman who had deceived his predecessor, Souris.
Suspense
The men were talking in the smoking-room after dinner. They were talking about unexpected legacies and curious inheritances, when Monsieur Le Brument, whom they sometimes addressed as “illustrious Master,” sometimes as “illustrious Advocate,” came and leaned up against the chimney.
“I have,” he said, “to search for an heir who disappeared in peculiarly terrible circumstances. It is one of those simple, violent dramas of ordinary life; the kind of thing that may happen any day but which, nevertheless, is one of the most appalling that I know of. This is the story:
“About six months ago I was called to see a dying woman, who said to me: ‘Sir, I wish you to undertake the most delicate and most difficult mission, one that will prove both tedious and wearisome. Please study my will, which is lying there on the table. A sum of five thousand francs is left you as a fee if you do not succeed, and of one hundred thousand francs if you do. I want you to find my son after my death.’
“She begged me to help her to sit up in bed, so that she might talk with greater ease, for her voice, broken and gasping, was whistling in her throat.
“It was a sumptuous house. The luxurious yet simple room was hung with material as thick as a wall, so soothing to the eye that it was like a caress, so restful that it seemed to absorb every word spoken in the room.
“The dying woman continued:
“ ‘You are the first person to hear my terrible story. I will try to keep my strength to go on to the end. You, whom I know to be kindhearted as well as experienced, must know all there is to know so that you may wish with all your heart to do your utmost to help me.
“ ‘Listen to me.
“ ‘Before I was married I loved a young man of whom my parents disapproved because he had not enough
