“You would be even more incensed against him, poor wretch, if I were to tell you something.”
“And what is that, my love?”
“Well, that good-for-nothing fellow, as you call him, is making love to me.”
“Phew!”
“That is so, my lord,” said Madame Suzanne, laughing.
“What! that boor, that low rascal! Where is he? Where does he hide himself? By Beelzebub! I’ll throw him to my dogs to eat!”
And then, all at once, Thibault recognised his man. “Ah! my lord Baron,” he muttered, “it’s you, is it?”
“Pray do not trouble yourself about it, my lord,” said Madame Suzanne, laying her two hands on her lover’s shoulders, and obliging him to sit down again, “your lordship is the only person whom I love, and even were it not so, a man with a lock of red hair right in the middle of his forehead is not the one to whom I should give away my heart.” And as the recollection of this lock of hair, which had made her laugh so at dinner, came back to her, she again gave way to her amusement.
A violent feeling of anger towards the Bailiff’s wife took possession of Thibault.
“Ah! traitress!” he exclaimed to himself, “what would I not give for your husband, your good, upright husband, to walk in at this moment and surprise you.”