Nothing annoys a married man so much as finding his wife perpetually
interposing between himself and his wishes, however transient.

Wenceslas got home at about one in the morning; Hortense had expected
him ever since half-past nine. From half-past nine till ten she had
listened to the passing carriages, telling herself that never before
had her husband come in so late from dining with Florent and Chanor.
She sat sewing by the child's cot, for she had begun to save a
needlewoman's pay for the day by doing the mending herself.--From ten
till half-past, a suspicion crossed her mind; she sat wondering:

"Is he really gone to dinner, as he told me, with Chanor and Florent?
He put on his best cravat and his handsomest pin when he dressed. He
took as long over his toilet as a woman when she wants to make the
best of herself.--I am crazy! He loves me!--And here he is!"

But instead of stopping, the cab she heard went past.

From eleven till midnight Hortense was a victim to terrible alarms;
the quarter where they lived was now deserted.

"If he has set out on foot, some accident may have happened," thought
she. "A man may be killed by tumbling over a curbstone or failing to
see a gap. Artists are so heedless! Or if he should have been stopped
by robbers!--It is the first time he has ever left me alone here for
six hours and a half!--But why should I worry myself? He cares for no
one but me."