The conjugal valet’s countenance fell. “No,” he said, “no; he could not take advantage of Monsieur’s generosity.”
“I insist upon it—not another word.”
“I beg a thousand pardons of Monsieur; but—but my wife is very ill, and unable to travel.”
“Then, in that case, so excellent a husband cannot think of leaving a sick and destitute wife.”
“Poverty has no law; if I consulted my heart and stayed, I should starve, et il faut vivre.”
“Je n’en vois pas la necessite,” replied I, as I got into my carriage. That repartee, by the way, I cannot claim as my own; it is the very unanswerable answer of a judge to an expostulating thief.
I made the round of reciprocal regrets, according to the orthodox formula. The Duchesse de Perpignan was the last—(Madame D’Anville I reserved for another day)—that virtuous and wise personage was in the boudoir of reception. I glanced at the fatal door as I entered. I have a great aversion, after any thing has once happened and fairly subsided, to make any allusion to its former existence. I never, therefore, talked to the Duchess about our ancient egaremens. I spoke, this morning, of the marriage of one person, the death of another, and lastly, the departure of my individual self.
“When do you go?” she said, eagerly.
“In two days: my departure will be softened, if I can execute any commissions in England for Madame.”
“None,” said she; and then in a low tone (that none of the idlers, who were always found at her morning levees, should hear), she added, “you will receive a note from me this evening.”