As long as you stay in the village, they will call me the cuckold

My hands clasped in my pockets, my mind more confused than ever, I rang the doorbell at their home, not knowing in advance what I would say or what I would avoid. Lucien opened the door, and I went in.

An empty bottle of wine and a solitary glass were on the modest table—a couple in grief. Red-eyed, Lucien nervously crisscrossed the kitchen. Suddenly, he grabbed his young wolfhound by the skin of the neck and lifted him. The dog uttered a bark of all the devils, and he let it go.

"Tell me!" He said.

I regretted for a moment that I had come to their house. I could not find my words. What was I going to say? My silent presence soon exasperated Lucien, who suddenly broke loose:

"’Nom de Dieu' (For God's Sake)! How did you allow yourself to receive her at your place? I still cannot believe what you did! She tells me that you were talking, discussing things. 'Nom de Dieu!' Was the hotel not enough for your discussions?

"It was a mistake! It was not premeditated!"

"Enough! 'Nom de Dieu!' Enough hypocrisy! You welcome her rather than send her away! Do you not think about what you do?"

"I regret it." And, honestly, I really meant it.

"You regret?! What's the point of regretting now? Stop your comedy!"

And it was not a comedy.

“As long as you stay in Saint-Jérôme (a village in the French Alps), they will call me the cuckold."

I went out overwhelmed and rushed down the Nationale. There was nobody. The whole night belonged to me. I cried that night. I was nineteen years old.

Lucien had asked me to leave! I needed to work. I felt villainous despite myself. Did he know I had tried to keep his wife away? Would he ever know? My stay at the hotel cost Lucien dearly. Someone had to pay. I refused.