“Very well, madame! Only be quite sure of the strength of that convention—as sure as your husband may be of its weakness. I do not think he will wait a year for the test. Farewell!” and he went.
And no sooner was he out of sight and hearing, than Yolande bent herself face downwards on the rock, and delivered her soul in a cry of agony,—
“Louis! my Louis! so ill, so broken! and I may not help thee, nor think of thee!”
CHAPTER VI
If all the rest of feminine Le Prieuré was agreed in accepting Louis-Marie’s discomfiture with regretful resignation, Martha Paccard was certainly not going to number herself of that complacent sisterhood. She was hot with pity and indignation, and, because vexed, illogical of course.
“What did the man seek?” she asked sharply of Jacques Balmat, referring to the Chevalier de France. “Honour, renown, riches, through this connection with a débauché? Our monsieur had provided them all, and with a better savour, if only you had spurred him timely to achieve the ambition of his life. But how was the poor boy to accomplish that ascent, with you and your wisdom for ever at his elbow persuading him from it? You men are all alike—great promises, and little reasons for not performing them.”
“No later than the day of the marriage, Martha, I urged him to come and try once more.”
“Then you did very wrong. What title had you to demand that risk of him, when all his happiness was at stake in Le Prieuré?”
“To increase the odds in his favour, to be sure.”
“Favour and odds! Has he not his patrimony, enough to frank a presence less angelic than his?”