It was a letter to the emperor accepting the position of councillor of state, written in the dry but emphatic style, that style at the bar which he employed when addressing the Bench whilst he gesticulated with his long sleeves. It began thus: “A Vendean of the South, raised in the belief in the monarchy and a respectful reverence for the past, I feel that I shall not do violence to my honor or to my conscience—”
“You must not send that!” said she quickly.
He flew into a rage, talked loudly and brutally like a shopman at Aps laying down the law in his own household. What business was it of hers, after all was said and done? What did she mean by it? Did he interfere with her about the shape of her bonnets or the models of her gowns? He stormed and thundered as if he had a public audience, but Rosalie maintained a tranquil, almost disdainful silence at such violence as this, mere remnant of a will already broken, sure of her victory in the end. These crises which weaken and disarm them are themselves the ruin of exuberant natures.
“You must not send that letter. It would give the lie to your whole life, to all your obligations—”
“My obligations! and to whom?”
“To me. Remember how we first knew each other, how you won my heart by your protestations and disgust at the emperor’s masquerades. It was not so much the sentiments that I admired in you as the fixed purpose that you showed to uphold a righteous cause once adopted—your steady manly will!”
But he defended his conduct. Ought he eat his heart out all his life long in a party frozen stiff, without springs of action, a camp deserted and abandoned under the snow? Besides, it was not he who went to the Empire, it was the Empire that came to him. The emperor was an excellent man, full of ideas, much superior to his court—in fine, he brought to bear all the good arguments for playing the traitor. But Rosalie would accept none of them, and tried to show him that his conduct would not only be treacherous but short-sighted:
“Do you not see how uneasy these people are, how they feel that the earth is mined and hollow beneath their feet? The slightest jar from a rolling stone and the whole thing will crumble! And into what a gulf!”
She talked with perfect clearness, gave details, repeated many things that she, always a silent person, had picked up after dinner from the talks when the men would leave the women, intelligent or not, to languish over toilets and worldly scandal in conversation that even such topics could not enliven.
“Odd little woman!” thought Roumestan. Where had she learned all that she was saying? He could not get over the fact that she was so clever; and, following one of those sudden changes that make these gusty natures so lovable, he took this reasoning little head, so charming with youth and yet so intelligent, between his hands and covered it with a passion of tender kisses.