"The Caucasus!" exclaimed Florence, straightening herself up in her chair this time. "Is it possible you thought of such a thing as visiting the Caucasus?" she added, clasping her pretty hands in undisguised horror.
"But, madame, Lady Stanhope, and the Duchesse de Plaisance, and many others, have made similar journeys."
"The Caucasus! So that was what you reserved for me! That was what you were infamously plotting, when I so trustingly gave you my hand in the Chapel of the Assumption. Ah, I understand the cruel selfishness of your character now."
And sinking back in her armchair again, she repeated, in the same horrified tones:
"The Caucasus! Think of it, the Caucasus!"
"Oh, I know very well now that you are one of those women who are incapable of making the slightest concession to their husband's wishes," retorted M. de Luceval, bitterly.
"The slightest concession! Why don't you propose a voyage of discovery to Timbuctoo, or the North Pole, and be done with it?"
"Madame Biard, the brave-hearted wife of an eminent painter, had the courage to accompany her husband to the polar seas without a murmur; yes, even gladly, madame," answered M. de Luceval,—"to polar seas, do you hear, madame?"
"I hear only too well, monsieur. You are either the most wicked or the most insane of men!"
"Really, madame—"