“It is very cold,” remarked Madame Jules.

But her husband did not hear her; he was studying the signs above the shop windows.

“Clemence,” he said at last, “forgive me the question I am about to ask you.”

He came closer, took her by the waist, and drew her to him.

“My God, it is coming!” thought the poor woman.  “Well,” she said aloud, anticipating the question, “you want to know what Monsieur de Maulincour said to me.  I will tell you, Jules; but not without fear.  Good God! how is it possible that you and I should have secrets from one another?  For the last few moments I have seen you struggling between a conviction of our love and vague fears.  But that conviction is clear within us, is it not?  And these doubts and fears, do they not seem to you dark and unnatural?  Why not stay in that clear light of love you cannot doubt?  When I have told you all, you will still desire to know more; and yet I myself do not know what the extraordinary words of that man meant.  What I fear is that this may lead to some fatal affair between you.  I would rather that we both forget this unpleasant moment.  But, in any case, swear to me that you will let this singular adventure explain itself naturally.  Here are the facts.  Monsieur de Maulincour declared to me that the three accidents you have heard mentioned—­the falling of a stone on his servant, the breaking down of his cabriolet, and his duel about Madame de Serizy —­were the result of some plot I had laid against him.  He also threatened to reveal to you the cause of my desire to destroy him.  Can you imagine what all this means?  My emotion came from the sight of his face convulsed with madness, his haggard eyes, and also his words, broken by some violent inward emotion.  I thought him mad.  That is all that took place.  Now, I should be less than a woman if I had not perceived that for over a year I have become, as they call it, the passion of Monsieur de Maulincour.  He has never seen me except at a ball; and our intercourse has been most insignificant,—­merely that which every one shares at a ball.  Perhaps he wants to disunite us, so that he may find me at some future time alone and unprotected.  There, see! already you are frowning!  Oh, how cordially I hate society!  We were so happy without him; why take any notice of him?  Jules, I entreat you, forget all this!  To-morrow we shall, no doubt, hear that Monsieur de Maulincour has gone mad.”

“What a singular affair!” thought Jules, as the carriage stopped under the peristyle of their house.  He gave his arm to his wife and together they went up to their apartments.

To develop this history in all its truth of detail, and to follow its course through many windings, it is necessary here to divulge some of love’s secrets, to glide beneath the ceilings of a marriage chamber, not shamelessly, but like Trilby, frightening neither Dougal nor Jeannie, alarming no one,—­being as chaste as our noble French language requires, and as bold as the pencil of Gerard in his picture of Daphnis and Chloe.