"When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her." - Sacha Guitry

Just yesterday, the Parisian courts were abuzz with a case that seemed to have stepped straight out of a classic French farce. The plaintiff, a certain Monsieur Leclair, took the stand with a peculiar request: that his unfaithful wife, Madame Leclair, remain with her lover. The defendant, a man of considerable means named Monsieur Dupont, sat in stunned silence as Monsieur Leclair delivered a soliloquy that would have made Sacha Guitry himself proud.

"You see, Your Honor," Leclair began, "when a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her." The courtroom erupted into a mix of gasps and smothered laughter. Leclair, undeterred, continued his impassioned speech. "I have suffered the indignity of infidelity, the humiliation of betrayal. But I have come to realize that the true punishment is not in the loss of my wife but in the burden of her company."

Madame Leclair, seated in the gallery, stared at her husband in disbelief. She had expected a bitter divorce battle, not this bizarre spectacle. Dupont, meanwhile, looked increasingly uncomfortable, shifting in his seat as if trying to disappear into the woodwork.

Leclair went on to outline the financial and emotional costs of his marriage, painting a picture of a union that had long since turned sour. "I want nothing from her," he declared, his voice steady and calm. "Not a penny, not a piece of furniture. I just want to be free of her. And I want Monsieur Dupont to have the joy of dealing with her endless demands and temperamental outbursts."

The judge, a stern-faced woman with a reputation for fairness, listened intently. She had presided over many divorce cases, but never one quite like this. She leaned forward, her elbows on the table, and asked, "And what of your wife's feelings in all this, Monsieur Leclair? Have you considered her at all?"

Leclair smiled, a slow, sad curve of his lips. "Your Honor, my wife's feelings have been the bane of my existence for years. I believe she will be much happier with Monsieur Dupont. After all, he is the one who sought her out, who pursued her. Let him have the honor of her company."

Dupont squirmed in his seat, his normally imposing figure seeming to shrink under the weight of Leclair's words. The judge turned her gaze to Madame Leclair, who looked pale and shaken. "Madame Leclair, what say you to this?" she asked gently.

Madame Leclair opened her mouth, then closed it again, at a loss for words. She glanced at Dupont, then back at her husband, her expression a mix of confusion and anger. "I... I don't know what to say," she stammered. "I never expected this."

The judge nodded, her expression thoughtful. "Very well," she said, turning back to Leclair. "I will need to consider your request, Monsieur Leclair. This is a most unusual circumstance, and I must ensure that all parties are treated fairly."

As the court adjourned, the gallery buzzed with whispered conversations. Monsieur Leclair stepped out into the sunlight, a small smile playing on his lips. He had taken a risk, using Sacha Guitry's famous quip as his defense. But he had meant every word. The true revenge, he believed, was not in taking away his wife's happiness but in leaving her to find it elsewhere.

Meanwhile, inside the courtroom, Madame Leclair and Monsieur Dupont sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. The game of love and betrayal had taken an unexpected turn, and neither knew quite what to make of it. But one thing was certain: Sacha Guitry's words had proven more powerful than either had imagined.