That name, monsieur, sounds mighty like a feigned one; but if it is yours, excuse me. But this I say, if Madame Jules was a court duchess, Henri is rich enough to satisfy all her fancies, and it is my business to protect my property; I've a right to, for I love him, that I do. He is my /first/ inclination; my happiness and all my future fate depends on it. I fear nothing, monsieur; I am honest; I never lied, or stole the property of any living soul, no matter who. If an empress was my rival, I'd go straight to her, empress as she was; because all pretty women are equals, monsieur--"
"Enough! enough!" said Jules. "Where do you live?"
"Rue de la Corderie-du-Temple, number 14, monsieur,--Ida Gruget, corset-maker, at your service,--for we make lots of corsets for men."
"Where does the man whom you call Ferragus live?"
"Monsieur," she said, pursing up her lips, "in the first place, he's not a man; he is a rich monsieur, much richer, perhaps, than you are.
But why do you ask me his address when your wife knows it? He told me not to give it. Am I obliged to answer you? I'm not, thank God, in a confessional or a police-court; I'm responsible only to myself."
"If I were to offer you ten thousand francs to tell me where Monsieur Ferragus lives, how then?"
"Ha! n, o, /no/, my little friend, and that ends the matter," she said, emphasizing this singular reply with a popular gesture. "There's no sum in the world could make me tell you. I have the honor to bid you good-day. How do I get out of here?"
Jules, horror-struck, allowed her to go without further notice. The whole world seemed to crumble beneath his feet, and above him the heavens were falling with a crash.
"Monsieur is served," said his valet.
The valet and the footman waited in the dining-room a quarter of an hour without seeing master or mistress.
"Madame will not dine to-day," said the waiting-maid, coming in.
"What's the matter, Josephine?" asked the valet.
"I don't know," she answered. "Madame is crying, and is going to bed.
Monsieur has no doubt got some love-affair on hand, and it has been discovered at a very bad time. I wouldn't answer for madame's life.
Men are so clumsy; they'll make you scenes without any precaution."
"That's not so," said the valet, in a low voice. "On the contrary, madame is the one who--you understand? What times does monsieur have to go after pleasures, he, who hasn't slept out of madame's room for five years, who goes to his study at ten and never leaves it till breakfast, at twelve. His life is all known, it is regular; whereas madame goes out nearly every day at three o'clock, Heaven knows where."
"And monsieur too," said the maid, taking her mistress's part.
"Yes, but he goes straight to the Bourse. I told him three times that dinner was ready," continued the valet, after a pause. "You might as well talk to a post."
Monsieur Jules entered the dining-room.
"Where is madame?" he said.
"Madame is going to bed; her head aches," replied the maid, assuming an air of importance.
Monsieur Jules then said to the footmen composedly: "You can take away; I shall go and sit with madame."
He went to his wife's room and found her weeping, but endeavoring to smother her sobs with her handkerchief.
"Why do you weep?" said Jules; "you need expect no violence and no reproaches from me. Why should I avenge myself? If you have not been faithful to my love, it is that you were never worthy of it."
"Not worthy?" The words were repeated amid her sobs and the accent in which they were said would have moved any other man than Jules.
"To kill you, I must love more than perhaps I do love you," he continued. "But I should never have the courage; I would rather kill myself, leaving you to your--happiness, and with--whom!--"
He did not end his sentence.
"Kill yourself!" she cried, flinging herself at his feet and clasping them.
But he, wishing to escape the embrace, tried to shake her off, dragging her in so doing toward the bed.
"Let me alone," he said.
"No, no, Jules!" she cried. "If you love me no longer I shall die. Do you wish to know all?"
"Yes."
He took her, grasped her violently, and sat down on the edge of the bed, holding her between his legs. Then, looking at that beautiful face now red as fire and furrowed with tears,--"Speak," he said.
Her sobs began again.
"No; it is a secret of life and death. If I tell it, I--No, I cannot.
Have mercy, Jules!"
"You have betrayed me--"
"Ah! Jules, you think so now, but soon you will know all."
"But this Ferragus, this convict whom you go to see, a man enriched by crime, if he does not belong to you, if you do not belong to him--"
"Oh, Jules!"
"Speak! Is he your mysterious benefactor?--the man to whom we owe our fortune, as persons have said already?"
"Who said that?"
"A man whom I killed in a duel."
"Oh, God! one death already!"
"If he is not your protector, if he does not give you money, if it is you, on the contrary, who carry money to him, tell me, is he your brother?"
"What if he were?" she said.
Monsieur Desmarets crossed his arms.
"Why should that have been concealed from me?" he said. "Then you and your mother have both deceived me? Besides, does a woman go to see her brother every day, or nearly every day?"
His wife had fainted at his feet.
"Dead," he said. "And suppose I am mistaken?"
He sprang to the bell-rope; called Josephine, and lifted Clemence to the bed.
"I shall die of this," said Madame Jules, recovering consciousness.
"Josephine," cried Monsieur Desmarets. "Send for Monsieur Desplein; send also to my brother and ask him to come here immediately."
"Why your brother?" asked Clemence.
But Jules had already left the room.
