"Your indolence? What on earth do you mean, Florence? Did not a separation from your husband necessitate the renunciation of the wealth and luxury that would permit you to lead a life of ease?"
"But you forget, Valentine, that if I accepted M. de Luceval's wages,—if I remained in his employ, in other words,—I would be obliged to sacrifice my tastes to his, to plunge into the feverish maelstrom of society, in which he delighted,—to go to the Caucasus with him, in short, if the whim seized him, and I preferred death to a life like that."
"But your husband loved you so, why did you not endeavour to make him sacrifice his wishes and tastes to yours?"
"He loved me, oh, yes, he loved me as I love strawberries,—to eat them. Besides, I knew him too well; he could no more change his character than I could change mine, and our life would have become a hell. It was much better for us to part at once."
"Did you inform Michel of your determination?"
"Yes, and he approved unreservedly. It was about this time that we first formed some vague plans for the future,—plans which were always subordinate to you, however."
"To me?"
"Yes, certainly. Michel knew his duty, and would have done it, if we had succeeded in finding you. While he was making a final attempt in that direction, I, on my side, was endeavouring to secure the separation I desired. At the end of four months I was legally divorced from M. de Luceval, and he started on his travels. Then, and not until then, did I see Michel again, as I had requested him to cease his visits until I was free. Neither of us had anything from you, so, being forced to renounce all hope of seeing you again, we began to consider our plans for the future. I alluded a short time ago, my dear Valentine, to the prodigies indolence can achieve; I will tell you some of them.
"The point of departure that we took, or, rather, our declaration of principles was this," said Florence, with the most solemn but comical air imaginable: "'We have but one desire and object in life,—perfect rest and peace of mind and body,—all mental and physical effort being positively restricted to dreaming, reading, talking, and gazing at the heavens, the trees, the streams, the fields and mountains that God has made; to keeping cool in summer, and warm in winter. We are too devoutly idle to be ambitious, vain, or avaricious, to desire the burden of sumptuous living or the fatigue and excitement of a gay social life. The requisites for the life of indolence of which we dream are a small house that is warm in winter and cool in summer, a nice garden, and a few comfortable armchairs, hammocks, and couches, several pleasing views within our range of vision so we shall not be obliged to take the trouble to go in search of them, an equable climate, frugal fare,—neither of us are gourmands,—and a servant. It is also essential that the means to lead such a life may be assured beyond the shadow of a doubt, so we may never be troubled by any anxiety in regard to pecuniary matters.' How were these ambitions to be realised? Prodigies of courage and industry must be performed to bring about this much desired consummation. Listen and admire, my dear Valentine."
"I am listening, Florence, and I am beginning to admire, too, for it seems to me I divine everything now."