She sulks for hours and hours, her forehead stern, her mouth ugly. He follows her about everywhere, trembling and stammering excuses.
"But, my pet, you know very well" . . .
"Let me alone; you make me tired."
The next day, naturally. Monsieur does not go out, and Madame exclaims:
"Why do you wander about thus in the house, like a soul in torment?"
"But, my pet" . . .
"You would do much better to go out, to go hunting, the devil knows where! You annoy me; you unnerve me. Go away."
So that he never knows what to do, whether to go or stay, to be here or elsewhere. A difficult problem. But, as in either case Madame scolds, Monsieur has taken the course of going away as often as possible. In that way he does not hear her scold.
Ah! it is really pitiful.
The other morning, as I was going to spread a little linen on the hedge, I saw him in the garden. Monsieur was gardening. The wind having blown down some dahlias during the night, he was refastening them to their props.
Very often, when he does not go out before lunch, Monsieur works in the garden; at least, he pretends to be occupying himself with something
