Or else—­but an attempt to mention all the chances of discovery would be the undertaking of a madman.

Every woman will remember to herself how the bandage with which her eyes were bound fell off:  how, after many doubts, and agonies of heart, she made up her mind to have a final quarrel for the simple purpose of finishing the romance, putting the seal to the book, stipulating for her independence, or beginning life over again.

Some women are fortunate enough to have anticipated their husbands, and they then have the quarrel as a sort of justification.

Nervous women give way to a burst of passion and commit acts of violence.

Women of mild temper assume a decided tone which appalls the most intrepid husbands.  Those who have no vengeance ready shed a great many tears.

Those who love you forgive you.  Ah, they conceive so readily, like the woman called “Ma berline,” that their Adolphe must be loved by the women of France, that they are rejoiced to possess, legally, a man about whom everybody goes crazy.

Certain women with lips tight shut like a vise, with a muddy complexion and thin arms, treat themselves to the malicious pleasure of promenading their Adolphe through the quagmire of falsehood and contradiction:  they question him (see Troubles within Troubles), like a magistrate examining a criminal, reserving the spiteful enjoyment of crushing his denials by positive proof at a decisive moment.  Generally, in this supreme scene of conjugal life, the fair sex is the executioner, while, in the contrary case, man is the assassin.

This is the way of it:  This last quarrel (you shall know why the author has called it the last), is always terminated by a solemn, sacred promise, made by scrupulous, noble, or simply intelligent women (that is to say, by all women), and which we give here in its grandest form.

“Enough, Adolphe!  We love each other no more; you have deceived me, and I shall never forget it.  I may forgive it, but I can never forget it.”

Women represent themselves as implacable only to render their forgiveness charming:  they have anticipated God.

“We have now to live in common like two friends,” continues Caroline.  “Well, let us live like two comrades, two brothers, I do not wish to make your life intolerable, and I never again will speak to you of what has happened—­”

Adolphe gives Caroline his hand:  she takes it, and shakes it in the English style.  Adolphe thanks Caroline, and catches a glimpse of bliss:  he has converted his wife into a sister, and hopes to be a bachelor again.

The next day Caroline indulges in a very witty allusion (Adolphe cannot help laughing at it) to Chaumontel’s affair.  In society she makes general remarks which, to Adolphe, are very particular remarks, about their last quarrel.

At the end of a fortnight a day never passes without Caroline’s recalling their last quarrel by saying:  “It was the day when I found Chaumontel’s bill in your pocket:”  or “it happened since our last quarrel:”  or, “it was the day when, for the first time, I had a clear idea of life,” etc.  She assassinates Adolphe, she martyrizes him!  In society she gives utterance to terrible things.