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.