"You like blondes, I see!" said Marianne. "I am almost inclined to be jealous!"
"Will you do me a great favor?" then interrupted Sulpice. "Never let us speak of her. Let us speak of ourselves."
"Yes," continued the perfidious Marianne in a patronizing tone, as if she had not heard him, "she is certainly charming! A trifle—just a trifle—bourgeoise—But charming! Decidedly charming!"
Knowing Vaudrey well, she understood what a keen weapon she was plunging straight into him. A little bourgeoise! This conclusion rendered by the Parisienne with a smile now haunted Sulpice, who was annoyed at himself and he sought to discover in his wife, the dear creature whom he had so tenderly loved, whom he still loved, some self-satisfying excuse for his passion and adultery.
"Bah!" he thought. "Is it adultery? There is no adultery save for the wife. The husband's faithlessness is called a caprice, an adventure, a craving or madness of the senses. Only the wife is adulterous."
In all candor, what sin had he committed? Was Adrienne less loved? He would have sacrificed his life for her. He overwhelmed her with presents, created surprises for her that she received without emotion, and simply said in a doleful tone:
"How good you are, my dear!"
He was ruining neither her nor his children! Ah! if he but had children! Why had not Adrienne had children? A woman should be a mother. It is maternity that in the marriage estate justifies a man in abandoning his freedom and a woman her shame.
A mother! And was Marianne a mother?
No, but Marianne was Marianne. Marianne was not created for the domestic fireside and the cradle. Her statuesque and seductively lovely limbs only craved for the writhings of pleasure, not the pangs of maternity. Adrienne, on the contrary, was the wife, and the childless wife soon took another name: the friend. No, he robbed her of nothing, Adrienne lost none of his affection, none of his fortune. The money squandered at Rue Prony, Vaudrey had acquired; it was the savings of the honest people of Saint-Laurent-du-Pont, the parents, the old folks, that he threw—as in smelting—into the crucible of the girl's mansion.