nion. At the end of a
few moments, the barking of the dogs, the joking of the hunters, even the
wind in the trees and the rustling leaves, had bored Octave to such an
extent that, in spite of himself, his face betrayed him.

"What a doleful face you have!" exclaimed his host, laughingly. "I am
sorry that I took you away from Madame de Bergenheim; it seems that you
decidedly prefer her society to ours."

"Would you be very jealous if I were to admit the fact?" replied Octave,
making an effort to assume the same laughing tone as the Baron.

"Jealous! No, upon my honor! However, you are well constituted to give
umbrage to a poor husband.

"But jealousy is not one of my traits of character, nor among my
principles."

"You are philosophical!" said the lover, with a forced smile.

"My philosophy is very simple. I respect my wife too much to suspect her,
and I love her too much to annoy her in advance with an imaginary
trouble. If this trouble should come, and I were sure of it, it would be
time enough to worry myself about it. Besides, it would be an affair soon
settled."

"What affair?" asked Marillac, slackening his pace in order to join in
the conversation.

"A foolish affair, my friend, which does not concern you, Monsieur de
Gerfaut, nor myself any longer, I hope; although I belong to the class
exposed to danger. We were speaking of conjugal troubles."

The artist threw a glance at his friend which signified: "What the deuce
made you take it into your head to start up this hare?"

"There are many things to be said on this subject," said he, in a
sententious tone, thinking that his intervention might be useful in
getting his friend out of the awkward position in which he found himself,
"an infinite number of things may be said; books without number have been
written upon this subject. Every one has his own system and plan of
conduct as to the way of looking at and acting upon it."

"And what would be yours, you consummate villain?" asked Christian;
"would you be as cruel a husband as you are an immoral bachelor? That
usually happens; the bolder a poacher one has been, the more intractable
a gamekeeper one becomes. What would be your system?"

"Hum! hum! you are mistaken, Bergenheim; my boyish love adventures have
disposed me to indulgence. 'Debilis caro', you know! Shakespeare has
translated it, 'Frailty, thy name is woman!'"

"I am a little rusty in my; Latin and I never knew a word of English.
What does