His face clouded over, and his eyes filled with tears, but I did not venture to force myself into his confidence.  My looks, however, were no doubt not so discreet as my silence, and begged him to speak, and so he responded to their mute appeal.  “After all,” he said:  “why should I not tell you about it?  You will understand me.”  And he added, with a look of sudden ferocity:  “She understood it at any rate!” “Who?” I asked.  “My unfaithful wife,” he replied.  “Ah!  Monsieur, what an abominable creature she was, if you only knew!  Yes, she understood it too well, too well, and that is why I hate her so; even more on that account, than for having deceived me.  For that is a natural fault, is it not, and may be pardoned?  But the other thing was a crime, a horrible crime.”

The woman who stood against the wooden target every night with her arms stretched out and her fingers extended, and whom the old mountebank fitted with gloves and with a halo formed of his knives which were as sharp as razors, and which he planted close to her, was his wife.  She might have been a woman of forty, and must have been fairly pretty, but with perverse prettiness, an impudent mouth, a mouth that was at the same time sensual and bad, with the lower lip too thick for the thin, dry upper lip.

I had several times noticed that every time he planted a knife in the board, she uttered a laugh, so low as scarcely to be heard, but which was very significant when one heard it, for it was a hard and very mocking laugh, but I had always attributed that sort of reply to an artifice which the occasion required.  It was intended, I thought, to accentuate the danger she incurred and the contempt that she felt for it, thanks to the sureness of the thrower’s hands, and so I was very surprised when the mountebank said to me: 

“Have you observed her laugh, I say?  Her evil laugh which makes fun of me, and her cowardly laugh, which defies me?  Yes, cowardly, because she knows nothing can happen to her, nothing, in spite of all she deserves, in spite of all that I ought to do to her, in spite of all that I want to do to her.”  “What do you want to do?” “Confound it!  Cannot you guess?  I want ... to kill her,” “To kill her, because she has ...”  “Because she has deceived me?  No, no, not that, I tell you again.  I have forgiven her for that, a long time ago, and I am too much accustomed to it!  But the worst of it is, that the first time I forgave her, when I told her that all the same, I might some day have my revenge by cutting her throat, if I chose, without seeming to do it on purpose, as if it were an accident, mere awkwardness.”  “Oh!  So you said that to her?” “Of course I did, and I meant it.  I thought I might be able to do it, for you see I had the perfect right to do so.  It was so simple, so easy, so tempting!  Just think!  A mistake of less than half an inch, and her skin would be cut at the neck where the jugular vein is, and the jugular would be severed.  My knives cut very well!  And when once the jugular is cut ... good-by.  The blood would spurt out, and one, two, three red jets, and all would be over; she would be dead, and I should have had my revenge!”