HARDLY had the duke closed the door of the saloon, when Pepe Vera came out of the alcove, laughing.

“Will you keep quiet?” said Maria, occupied in lighting the fire with the precious production of the duke.

“No, my dear, I cannot; I would stifle if I did not laugh. I am no longer jealous, my Mariquita, no more than the sultan in his seraglio. Poor woman! if you had not me to love you ardently, what could you do with a husband, who proves to you his love by his prescriptions—with a bashful lover, who courts you in reciting to you his verses? Now that one of them has gone to dream without sleeping, and the other wishes to sleep, we will go, you and I, and sup with the gay companions who wait for us.”

“No, Pepe, I am not well. The disorder you have caused me, the cold I felt on leaving the theatre, has injured me. I am chilly.”

“You do the princess! Come with me, a good supper will cure you sooner than ass’s milk. Come, let us go.”

“I will not go out. We have one of those north winds, which, while it would not extinguish a candle, kills a man.”

“It is well! if it pleases you, so let it be. Since you wish to pamper yourself, pamper thyself, and—good-evening!”

“How! you are going to supper? You leave me? You leave me alone, and ill, as you see, and ill because of your fault!”

“Well! what? Do you wish I put myself on diet? No, no, my beauty. They are waiting for me, and I go; you lose some hours of pleasure.”

Maria seemed to regain courage. She rose, went out, and slammed the door with anger. Pepe Vera laughed. An instant after she came back, dressed all in black, her face hidden under a thick mantle, and enveloped in a large shawl. Thus disguised she went out with Pepe Vera.

On entering his house, well advanced in the night, Stein received from his servant a billet, which he read as soon as he was in his chamber. It ran thus—

Stein took a light, went out, and walked on tiptoe through the rooms which led to his wife’s apartment. Arrived near to the chamber, he redoubled his precautions; he softly approached the bed, drew aside the curtains—the bed was empty!

A man as loyal, as confident as Stein, could not easily convince himself of the possibility of such treason.

“No,” said he, after some instants of reflection, “no, it is impossible! Her absence at such an hour is from some other cause, some unexpected circumstance. Still, I cannot remain in the dark, with a doubt in my heart. I must have the power to reply to that calumny, not only with contempt, but with irrefutable proofs, with a formal contradiction without reply.”

He went out.

Thanks to the night watchmen, he arrived easily at the place indicated in the letter.

The house designated had no porter. The street door was open, and Stein entered. He climbed the first flight of stairs, and, arriving at the first landing-place, he knew no longer how to direct his steps, nor where to go.

Recovered from his first movement, he commenced to feel ashamed of his action. “To spy,” said he to himself, “is a base action. If Maria knew what I am doing, she would be irritated, and she would be right to feel so. O my God! suspect her whom I love, is it not to call down the cloud which will obscure the heaven of our love? I a spy! This has happened from the contemptible letter of a woman more contemptible still. Yes, I will return home. To-morrow I will demand of Maria what I desire to know. It is the way the most simple, and the most natural. Come—no more suspicions, no more doubts!”

Stein sighed so deeply that it seemed to suffocate him, and he wiped the sweat from his forehead.

“Oh, suspicion!” he cried—“suspicion, which makes the most confident heart believe treason to be possible. Infamous suspicion, the fruit of bad instincts and wicked insinuations! For a moment this monster had vanquished my soul, and now I dare no more look at Maria without being ashamed of myself.”

Stein was at last about to depart when a door, which communicated with the landing-place where he was, opened. This door, when opened, let forth the sound of glasses clashing, joyous songs, and bursts of laughter.

A servant who came out from within, his hands full of empty bottles, moved to make room for Stein to pass, whose appearance and costume inspired him with a sort of respect.

“Enter,” he said to him, “although you come late, and they have already supped;” and he descended without saying any thing more.

Stein found himself in a little antechamber which communicated with the adjoining room: he approached. Hardly had his look penetrated into the interior of this room than he stopped motionless, struck with stupor—Maria was there!

What must he have suffered when he saw his wife, with naked shoulders, seated at table on a stool, and having at her feet Pepe Vera, who sang, accompanying himself on the guitar—

“Bravo! bravo! Pepe,” cried the company. “Now it is Mariquita’s turn to sing. Come, sing, Mariquita! We are not the gents of yellow gloves and varnished boots, but we have, as well as grand lords, ears to listen. Come, Mariquita, sing; sing, and so that your countrymen can understand you. The gold-laced, embroidered, and decorated world knows only how to sing in French.”

Mariquita took the guitar, which Pepe presented to her on his knees, and sang—

This couplet was received by a storm of vivas, bravos, and applause, which made a concussion among the glasses.

Shame, more than indignation, caused Stein to blush.

“This Pepe was born with a caul,” said one of his companions; “he has more happiness than he wants.”

“I would not change my condition for an empire,” said the toreador.

“But what will the husband say to all this?” asked a picador, the oldest in the band.

“The husband!” replied Pepe, “I only know him to render him my duty. Pepe Vera associates only with valiant bull-fighters.”

Stein had disappeared.