“Why, of course not, of course not.”
“If I catch him there again, shall I have the
right to thrash him and her also?”
“Why—why—why, yes.”
“Very well, then; I will tell you why I want
to know. One night last week, as I had my suspicions,
I came in suddenly, and they were not behaving properly.
I chucked Polyte out, to go and sleep somewhere else;
but that was all, as I did not know what my rights
were. This time I did not see them; I only heard
of it from others. That is over, and we will
not say any more about it; but if I catch them again—by
G—, if I catch them again, I will make
them lose all taste for such nonsense, Maitre Cacheux,
as sure as my name is Severin.”
When M. Antoine Leuillet married the widow, Madame
Mathilde Souris, he had already been in love with
her for ten years.
M. Souris has been his friend, his old college chum.
Leuillet was very much attached to him, but thought
he was somewhat of a simpleton. He would often
remark: “That poor Souris who will never
set the world on fire.”
When Souris married Miss Mathilde Duval, Leuillet
was astonished and somewhat annoyed, as he was slightly
devoted to her, himself. She was the daughter
of a neighbor, a former proprietor of a draper’s
establishment who had retired with quite a small fortune.
She married Souris for his money.
Then Leuillet thought he would start a flirtation
with his friend’s wife. He was a good-looking
man, intelligent and also rich. He thought it
would be all plain sailing, but he was mistaken.
Then he really began to admire her with an admiration
that his friendship for the husband obliged him to
keep within the bounds of discretion, making him timid
and embarrassed. Madame Souris believing that
his presumptions had received a wholesome check now
treated him as a good friend. This went on for
nine years.
One morning a messenger brought Leuillet a distracted
note from the poor woman. Souris had just died
suddenly from the rupture of an aneurism. He
was dreadfully shocked, for they were just the same
age. But almost immediately a feeling of profound
joy, of intense relief, of emancipation filled his
being. Madame Souris was free.
He managed, however, to assume the sad, sympathetic
expression that was appropriate, waited the required
time, observed all social appearances. At the
end of fifteen months he married the widow.
This was considered to be a very natural, and even
a generous action. It was the act of a good friend
of an upright man.
He was happy at last, perfectly happy.
