fact, but he cavilled at fate in respect of the circumstances. Since
there had to be a death, he gave his consent that there should be one,
but he would have preferred another. Toward this one he was conscious of
a feeling of disgust and repugnance. He said to himself vaguely:

"I concede a suicide. But what is the good of a ridiculous and
declamatory suicide? Couldn't the fellow have killed himself at home?
Couldn't he, if his determination was irrevocable, have carried it out
discreetly, with proper pride? That is what a gentleman would have done
in his position. Then one might have pitied him, and respected his
memory."

He recalled word for word his conversation with Félicie in the bedroom
an hour before the tragedy. He asked her if she had not for a time been
Chevalier's mistress. He had asked her this, not because he wanted to
know, for he had very little doubt of it, but in order to show that he
knew it. And she had replied indignantly: "Chevalier? He? Good gracious
no! You wouldn't have had me look at him!"

He did not blame her for having lied. All women lie. He rather enjoyed
the graceful and easy manner with which she had cast the fellow out of
her past. But he was vexed with her for having given herself to a
low-down actor. Chevalier spoilt Félicie for him. Why did she take
lovers of that type? Was she wanting in taste? Did she not exercise a
certain selection? Did she behave like a woman of the town? Did she lack
a certain sense of niceness which warns women as to what they may or may
not do? Didn't she know how to behave? Well, this was the sort of thing
that happened if women had no breeding. He blamed Félicie for the
accident that had occurred and was relieved of a heavy incubus.