So much for his public life.
Lacaze married Madeleine Peyre as other men buy a fine horse. The only difference was that he got her for nothing.
In the Silvia of Ruffec he had seen a fine stamp of animal, intelligent, well-made, good to look upon. He had judged her strong, courageous, and obedient. Her possession would be something to be proud of. Others would covet such a prize. . . .
The fellow was perfectly right.
Physically and mentally Madeleine was all that could be desired. When he took her out and about, everyone stared in admiration. When he showed her off to his friends they made no secret of their envy. His house was always in order, such as he had not dreamed of. There was, however, a fretful fly in the ointment. It was this. Madeleine’s manners were perfect, but they were the manners of Silvia, and not the manners of a show horse.
Within twenty-four hours of her wedding it was all over, and Madeleine had realized her plight. Of course the blow had been frightful . . . stunning . . . too terrible to describe. The first blinding flash of perception had exploded a second: the second, a third. . . . Her poor brain had staggered under this fearful appulse, her spirit fainted, her heart sunk to her shoes. Her love for Lacaze had shrivelled and died then and there. Not so her obedience. . . . So soon as she could think clearly, Madeleine resolved to do her best to dovetail her principles into her husband’s demands.
The result was unsatisfactory—to Madame Lacaze. You cannot make a fair wallet out of a silk purse and a sow’s ear. The ways of Lacaze were not Madeleine’s. The grace the heaven had lent her, meant nothing to him. More—the man had a will. The grace the heaven had lent her, he made her discard.
The result was unsatisfactory—to Monsieur Lacaze. Madeleine bowed to his will, but not to his liking. She discarded her precious loan, if and when she was urged—never unless she was urged. His will had to be expressed—always. That was where her manners, as a horse, were so imperfect. Her rider’s heels ached. . . .
Never once did Lacaze lose his temper. Better for his wife if he had. Instead, he smiled a quiet smile, set his strong teeth and—stuck to his spurs. After a month or two his heels developed new muscles and stopped aching. From then on, the blood upon his rowels was never dry.
Her spirit had to be broken. Well, that was easy enough. It had been done before. A pair of aching heels, however, had to be paid for. Lacaze determined to break his wife’s spirit by eighths of an inch.