“But you are crazy, my dear; you don’t know what you are wishing for; a child would be your death.”
Many men, whose hopes were fastened on du Bousquier’s triumph, sang his praises to their wives, who in turn repeated them to the poor wife in some such speech as this:—
“You are very lucky, dear, to have married such an able man; you’ll escape the misery of women whose husbands are men without energy, incapable of managing their property, or bringing up their children.”
“Your husband is making you queen of the department, my love. He’ll never leave you embarrassed, not he! Why, he leads all Alencon.”
“But I wish,” said the poor wife, “that he gave less time to the public and—”
“You are hard to please, my dear Madame du Bousquier. I assure you that all the women in town envy you your husband.”
Misjudged by society, which began by blaming her, the pious woman found ample opportunity in her home to display her virtues. She lived in tears, but she never ceased to present to others a placid face. To so Christian a soul a certain thought which pecked forever at her heart was a crime: “I loved the Chevalier de Valois,” it said; “but I have married du Bousquier.” The love of poor Athanase Granson also rose like a phantom of remorse, and pursued her even in her dreams. The death of her uncle, whose griefs at the last burst forth, made her life still more sorrowful; for she now felt the suffering her uncle must have endured in witnessing the change of political and religious opinion in the old house. Sorrow often falls like a thunderbolt, as it did on Madame Granson; but in this old maid it slowly spread like a drop of oil, which never leaves the stuff that slowly imbibes it.
The Chevalier de Valois was the malicious manipulator who brought about the crowning misfortune of Madame du Bousquier’s life. His heart was set on undeceiving her pious simplicity; for the chevalier, expert in love, divined du Bousquier, the married man, as he had divined du Bousquier, the bachelor. But the wary republican was difficult of attack. His salon was, of course, closed to the Chevalier de Valois, as to all those who, in the early days of his marriage, had slighted the Cormon mansion. He was, moreover, impervious to ridicule; he possessed a vast fortune; he reigned in Alencon; he cared as little for his wife as Richard III. cared for the dead horse which had helped him win a battle. To please her husband, Madame du Bousquier had broken off relations with the d’Esgrignon household, where she went no longer, except that sometimes when her husband left her during his trips to Paris, she would pay a brief visit to Mademoiselle Armande.
About three years after her marriage, at the time of the Abbe de Sponde’s death, Mademoiselle Armande joined Madame du Bousquier as they were leaving Saint-Leonard’s, where they had gone to hear a requiem said for him. The generous demoiselle thought that on this occasion she owed her sympathy to the niece in trouble. They walked together, talking of the dear deceased, until they reached the forbidden house, into which Mademoiselle Armande enticed Madame du Bousquier by the charm of her manner and conversation. The poor desolate woman was glad to talk of her uncle with one whom he truly loved. Moreover, she wanted to receive the condolences of the old marquis, whom she had not seen for nearly three years. It was half-past one o’clock, and she found at the hotel d’Esgrignon the Chevalier de Valois, who had come to dinner. As he bowed to her, he took her by the hands.
“Well, dear, virtuous, and beloved lady,” he said, in a tone of emotion, “we have lost our sainted friend; we share your grief. Yes, your loss is as keenly felt here as in your own home,—more so,” he added, alluding to du Bousquier.