This missive told her that her husband had had for two years past, a sweetheart, a young widow named Madame Rosset, with whom he spent all his evenings.

Bertha knew neither how to dissemble her grief nor how to spy on her husband.  When he came in for lunch she threw the letter down before him, burst into tears, and fled to her room.

He had time to take in the situation and to prepare his reply.  He knocked at his wife’s door.  She opened it at once, but dared not look at him.  He smiled, sat down, drew her to his knee, and in a tone of light raillery began: 

“My dear child, as a matter of fact, I have a friend named Madame Rosset, whom I have known for the last ten years, and of whom I have a very high opinion.  I may add that I know scores of other people whose names I have never mentioned to you, seeing that you do not care for society, or fresh acquaintances, or functions of any sort.  But, to make short work of such vile accusations as this, I want you to put on your things after lunch, and we’ll go together and call on this lady, who will very soon become a friend of yours, too, I am quite sure.”

She embraced her husband warmly, and, moved by that feminine spirit of curiosity which will not be lulled once it is aroused, consented to go and see this unknown widow, of whom she was, in spite of everything, just the least bit jealous.  She felt instinctively that to know a danger is to be already armed against it.

She entered a small, tastefully furnished flat on the fourth floor of an attractive house.  After waiting five minutes in a drawing-room rendered somewhat dark by its many curtains and hangings, a door opened, and a very dark, short, rather plump young woman appeared, surprised and smiling.

George introduced them: 

“My wife—­Madame Julie Rosset.”

The young widow uttered a half-suppressed cry of astonishment and joy, and ran forward with hands outstretched.  She had not hoped, she said, to have this pleasure, knowing that Madame Baron never saw any one, but she was delighted to make her acquaintance.  She was so fond of George (she said “George” in a familiar, sisterly sort of way) that, she had been most anxious to know his young wife and to make friends with her, too.

By the end of a month the two new friends were inseparable.  They saw each other every day, sometimes twice a day, and dined together every evening, sometimes at one house, sometimes at the other.  George no longer deserted his home, no longer talked of pressing business.  He adored his own fireside, he said.

When, after a time, a flat in the house where Madame Rosset lived became vacant Madame Baron hastened to take it, in order to be near her friend and spend even more time with her than hitherto.

And for two whole years their friendship was without a cloud, a friendship of heart and mind—­absolute, tender, devoted.  Bertha could hardly speak without bringing in Julie’s name.  To her Madame Rosset represented perfection.