“Oscar, you must, I beg of you—­you are mistaken.”

At these words he broke into a fearful laugh.

“Mistaken—­mistaken!”

And he ran toward the pavilion.

Seizing the skirt of his dressing-gown, I held him tightly, exclaiming: 

“Don’t go, my dear fellow, don’t go; I beg of you on my knees not to go.”

By way of reply he gave me a hard blow on the arm with his fist, exclaiming: 

“What the devil is the matter with you?”

“I tell you that you can not go there, Oscar,” I said, in a voice which admitted of no contradiction.

“Then why did not you tell me at once.”

And feverishly snatching his dressing-gown from my grasp, he began to walk frantically up and down.

CHAPTER XVII

I SUP WITH MY WIFE

That evening, which chanced to be Christmas Eve, it was infernally cold.  The snow was falling in heavy flakes, and, driven by the wind, beat furiously against the window panes.  The distant chiming of the bells could just be heard through this heavy and woolly atmosphere.  Foot-passengers, wrapped in their cloaks, slipped rapidly along, keeping close to the house and bending their heads to the wintry blast.

Enveloped in my dressing-gown, and tapping with my fingers on the window-panes, I was smiling at the half-frozen passers-by, the north wind, and the snow, with the contented look of a man who is in a warm room and has on his feet comfortable flannel-lined slippers, the soles of which are buried in a thick carpet.  At the fireside my wife was cutting out something and smiling at me from time to time; a new book awaited me on the mantelpiece, and the log on the hearth kept shooting out with a hissing sound those little blue flames which invite one to poke it.

“There is nothing that looks more dismal than a man tramping through the snow, is there?” said I to my wife.

“Hush,” said she, lowering the scissors which she held in her hand; and, after smoothing her chin with her fingers, slender, rosy, and plump at their tips, she went on examining the pieces of stuff she had cut out.

“I say that it is ridiculous to go out in the cold when it is so easy to remain at home at one’s own fireside.”

“Hush.”

“But what are you doing that is so important?”

“I—­I am cutting out a pair of braces for you,” and she set to work again.  But, as in cutting out she kept her head bent, I noticed, on passing behind her, her soft, white neck, which she had left bare that evening by dressing her hair higher than usual.  A number of little downy hairs were curling there.  This kind of down made me think of those ripe peaches one bites so greedily.  I drew near, the better to see, and I kissed the back of my wife’s neck.

“Monsieur!” said Louise, suddenly turning round.

“Madame,” I replied, and we both burst out laughing.