A few days after, Clerambault, who had been again summoned before the
magistrate, came home splashed with mud from head to foot. His hat
which he held in his hand, was a mere rag, and his hair was soaking.
The woman, who opened the door, exclaimed at the sight of him, but he
signed to her to keep still, and went into his room. Rosine was away,
so the husband and wife were alone in the flat, where they only met at
meals, saying as little to each other as possible. However, hearing
the exclamation of the servant, Madame Clerambault feared some new
misfortune and went to look for her husband. She too cried out when
she saw him:
"Good Lord! what have you been doing now?"
"I slipped and fell," said he, trying to wipe off the traces of the accident.
"You fell?--turn round. What a state you are in!... One can't have a moment's peace when you are around.... You never look where you are going. There is mud up to your eyelids ... all over your face!"
"Yes, I must have struck myself there...."
"What unlucky people we are!... you 'think' that you struck your cheek?... you tripped and fell?..." And looking him in the face, she cried:
"It isn't true!...
"I did fall, I assure you...."
"No, I know it is not true ... tell me,... someone struck you ...?" He did not answer. "They struck you, the brutes. My poor husband, to think that anyone should strike you!... And you so good, who never did harm to anyone in your life! How can
