His fat apoplectical face became distorted, his anger was so violent that he could scarcely stutter.  When he heard, however, of the mission with which his wife had intrusted Mathieu, he at last exploded:  “She is mad!  I tell you that she is raving mad!  Were such fancies ever seen?  Every morning she invents something fresh to distract me!”

Without heeding this interruption, Mathieu quietly finished his narrative:  “And so I have just come back from the Foundling Hospital, where I learnt that the boy is alive.  I have his address—­and now what am I to do?”

This was the final blow.  Beauchene clenched his fists and raised his arms in exasperation.  “Ah! well, here’s a nice state of things!  But why on earth does she want to trouble me about that boy?  He isn’t hers!  Why can’t she leave us alone, the boy and me?  It’s my affair.  And I ask you if it is at all proper for my wife to send you running about after him?  Besides, I hope that you are not going to bring him to her.  What on earth could we do with that little peasant, who may have every vice?  Just picture him coming between us.  I tell you that she is mad, mad, mad!”

He had begun to walk angrily to and fro.  All at once he stopped:  “My dear fellow, you will just oblige me by telling her that he is dead.”

But he turned pale and recoiled.  Constance stood on the threshold and had heard him.  For some time past she had been in the habit of stealthily prowling around the offices, like one on the watch for something.  For a moment, at the sight of the embarrassment which both men displayed, she remained silent.  Then, without even addressing her husband, she asked:  “He is alive, is he not?”

Mathieu could but tell her the truth.  He answered with a nod.  Then Beauchene, in despair, made a final effort:  “Come, be reasonable, my dear.  As I was saying only just now, we don’t even know what this youngster’s character is.  You surely don’t want to upset our life for the mere pleasure of doing so?”

Standing there, lean and frigid, she gave him a harsh glance; then, turning her back on him, she demanded the child’s name, and the names of the wheelwright and the locality.  “Good, you say Alexandre-Honore, with Montoir the wheelwright, at Saint-Pierre, near Rougemont, in Calvados.  Well, my friend, oblige me by continuing your researches; endeavor to procure me some precise information about this boy’s habits and disposition.  Be prudent, too; don’t give anybody’s name.  And thanks for what you have done already; thanks for all you are doing for me.”

Thereupon she took herself off without giving any further explanation, without even telling her husband of the vague plans she was forming.  Beneath her crushing contempt he had grown calm again.  Why should he spoil his life of egotistical pleasure by resisting that mad creature?  All that he need do was to put on his hat and betake himself to his usual diversions.  And so he ended by shrugging his shoulders.