“Not at all. I am even going to write an article on it.”
“But what do you want to do?”
“To upset that scoundrel, that wretch, that open evildoer.” George placed his hat on an armchair, and added: “Woe to those who cross my path. I never forgive.”
The manager still hesitated at understanding matters. He murmured: “But—your wife?”
“My application for a divorce will be lodged tomorrow morning. I shall send her back to the departed Forestier.”
“You mean to get a divorce?”
“Yes. I was ridiculous. But I had to play the idiot in order to catch them. That’s done. I am master of the situation.”
Monsieur Walter could not get over it, and watched Du Roy with startling eyes, thinking: “Hang it, here is a fellow to be looked after.”
George went on: “I am now free. I have some money. I shall offer myself as a candidate at the October elections for my native place, where I am well known. I could not take a position or make myself respected with that woman, who was suspected by everyone. She had caught me like a fool, humbugged and ensnared me. But since I became alive to her little game I kept watch on her, the slut.” He began to laugh, and added: “It was poor Forestier who was cuckold, a cuckold without imagining it, confiding and tranquil. Now I am free from the leprosy he left me. My hands are free. Now I shall get on.” He had seated himself astride a chair, and repeated, as though thinking aloud, “I shall get on.”
And Daddy Walter, still looking at him with unveiled eyes, his spectacles remaining pushed up on his forehead, said to himself: “Yes, he will get on, the rascal.”