"Are they playing on me? and is she an accomplice of her husband?" A sort of shame, in spite of his desire, prevented him from returning to their house.
One morning (three weeks after their interview), M. Dambreuse wrote to him, saying that he expected him the same day in an hour's time.
On the way, the thought of Arnoux oppressed him once more, and, not having been able to discover any reason for his conduct, he was seized with a feeling of wretchedness, a melancholy presentiment. In order to shake it off, he hailed a cab, and drove to the Rue de Paradis.
Arnoux was away travelling.
"And Madame?"
"In the country, at the works."
"When is Monsieur coming back?"
"To-morrow, without fail."
He would find her alone; this was the opportune moment. Something imperious seemed to cry out in
