of the fur-lined pelisse in which she was
wrapped. He thought she seemed pensive, and perhaps she really was
so. Of all communicable things, reflection and gravity are the most
contagious.

"What could Monsieur de Maulincour have said to affect you so keenly?"
said Jules; "and why does he wish me to go to his house and find out?"

"He can tell you nothing in his house that I cannot tell you here," she
replied.

Then, with that feminine craft which always slightly degrades virtue,
Madame Jules waited for another question. Her husband turned his face
back to the houses, and continued his study of their walls. Another
question would imply suspicion, distrust. To suspect a woman is a crime
in love. Jules had already killed a man for doubting his wife. Clemence
did not know all there was of true passion, of loyal reflection, in her
husband's silence; just as Jules was ignorant of the generous drama that
was wringing the heart of his Clemence.

The carriage rolled on through a silent Paris, bearing the couple,--two
lovers who adored each other, and who, gently leaning on the same
silken cushion, were being parted by an abyss. In these elegant coupes
returning from a ball between midnight and two in the morning, how
many curious and singular scenes must pass,--meaning those coupes with
lanterns, which light both the street and the carriage, those with their
windows unshaded; in short, legitimate coupes, in which couples can
quarrel without caring for the eyes of pedestrians, because the civil
code gives a right to provoke, or beat, or kiss, a wife in a carriage
or elsewhere, anywhere, everywhere! How many secrets must be revealed in
this way to nocturnal pedestrians,--to those young fellows who have gone
to a ball in a carriage, but are obliged, for whatever cause it may be,
to return on foot. It was the first time that Jules and Clemence had
been together thus,--each in a corner; usually the husband pressed close
to his wife.

"It is very cold," remarked Madame Jules.

But her husband did not hear her; he was studying the signs above the
shop windows.

"Clemence," he said at last, "forgive me the question I am about to ask
you."

He came closer, took her by the waist, and drew her to him.

"My God, it is coming!" thought the poor woman. "Well," she said aloud,
anticipating the question, "you want to know what Monsieur de Maulincour
said to me. I will tell you, Jules; but not without fear. Good God! how
is it poss