"I will do that myself, my lord, when taking my usual morning's walk."
"Do you often walk out alone?"
"In fine weather nearly every day."
"That's right! It is a custom all young women should observe from the very earliest period of their marriage,—either from a good or an improper provision against future evil. The habit once established, it becomes what the lawyers style a precedent; and, in subsequent days, these habitual promenades excite no dangerous interpretations. If I had been a woman,—and, between ourselves, I fear I should have been very charitable, but equally flighty,—the very day after my marriage I should, in all possible innocence, have taken the most mysterious steps, and, with perfect simplicity, have involved myself in all manner of suspicious and compromising proceedings, for the purpose of establishing the precedent I spoke of, in order to be at liberty either to visit my poor pensioners or to meet my lover."
"But that would be downright perfidy to one's husband, would it not, my lord?" said Madame d'Harville, smiling.
"Fortunately for you, madame, you have never been driven to the necessity of admitting the utility of such provisionary measures."
Madame d'Harville's smile left her lips. She cast down her eyes, and, blushing deeply, said, in a low and sad voice, "This is not generous, my lord!"
At first Rodolph regarded the marquise with astonishment, then added, "I understand you, madame. But, once for all, let us weigh well your position as regards M. Charles Robert. I will just imagine that one of your acquaintances may one day have pointed out to you one of those pitiable-looking mendicants who roll their eyes most sentimentally, and play on the clarionet with desperate energy, to awaken the sympathy of the passers-by. 'That is really and truly a genuine case of distress,' observes your friend. 'That interesting musician has at least seven children, and a wife deaf, dumb, blind,' etc. 'Ah, poor fellow!' you reply, charitably aiding him with your purse. And so, each time you meet this case of genuine distress, the clarionet-player, the moment he discerns you from afar, fixes his imploring eyes upon you, while the most touching strains of his instrument are directed to touch your charitable sympathies, and that, too, so successfully, that again your purse opens at this fresh appeal. One day, more than usually disposed to pity this very unfortunate object by the importunities of the friend who first pointed him out to you, and who is most wickedly abusing your generous heart, you resolve to visit this case of genuine distress, as your false friend terms it, and to behold the poor object of your solicitude in the midst of his misery. Well, you go. But, lo! the grief-stricken musician has vanished; and in his place you find a lively, rollicking fellow, enjoying himself over some of the good things of this world, and mirthfully carolling forth the last new alehouse catch. Then disgust succeeds to pity; for you have bestowed your sympathy and charity alike upon an impostor, neither more nor less. Is it not so?"
Madame d'Harville could not restrain a smile at this singular apologue. She, however, soon checked it, as she added:
"However grateful I may feel for this mode of justifying my great imprudence, my lord, I can but confess I dare not avail myself of so favourable a pretext as that of mistaken charity."