old of her hands to remove them
from her eyes, so that he might look at them, and exclaim,

"Irene, Irene, what is the matter with you? I implore of you to tell
me what is the matter with you?"

Then, in the midst of her sobs she murmured,

"I can no longer live like this."

He did not understand.

"Live like this? What do you mean?"...

"Yes. I can no longer live like this.... I have endured so much.... He
struck me this afternoon."

"Who, your husband?"

"Yes, my husband."

"Ha!"

He was astonished, having never suspected that her husband could be
brutal. He was a man of the world, of the better class, a clubman, a
lover of horses, a theater goer, and an expert swordsman; he was
known, talked about, appreciated everywhere, having very courteous
manners, a very mediocre intellect, an absence of education and of the
real culture needed in order to think like all well-bred people, and
finally a respect for all conventional prejudices.

He appeared to devote himself to his wife, as a man ought to do in the
case of wealthy and well-bred people. He displayed enough of anxiety
about her wishes, her health, her dresses, and, beyond that, left her
perfectly free.

Randal, having become Irene's friend, had a right to the affectionate
hand-clasp which every husband endowed with good manners owes to his
wife's intimate acquaintances. Then, when Jacques, after having been
for some time the friend, became the lover, his relations with the
husband were more cordial, as is fitting.

Jacques had never dreamed that there were storms in this household,
and he was scared at this unexpected revelation.

He asked,

"How did it happen? tell me."

Thereupon she related a long history, the entire history of her life
since the day of her marriage, the first discussion arising out of a
mere nothing, then accentuating itself with all the estrangement which
grows up each day between two opposite types of character.

Then came quarrels, a complete separation, not apparent, but real;
next, her husband showed himself aggressive, suspicious, violent. Now,
he was jealous, jealous of Jacques, and this day even, after a scene,
he had struck her.

She added with decision, "I will not go back to him. Do with me what
you like."

Jacques sat down opposite to her, their knees touching each other. He
caught hold of her hands.

"My dear love, you are going to commit a gross, an irreparable folly.
If you want to quit your husband, p