Then Camille said, petulantly:
“But I do not see how that is to prevent the divorce. I—I—do not want to villify my husband publicly. I would rather make up our quarrel quietly. I have been hard upon him always. I can see that now, and I can hardly blame him for resenting it at last. Oh, God! I will humble myself in the dust at his feet—I will hear anything rather than to be put away from him forever.”
“Even to a temporary separation?” Finette hazarded.
“Even that—so it should be temporary alone,” agreed Camille.
“Then, miladi, I think we can manage it.”
“How?”
“You must write m’sieur a letter. Plead all your love and innocence. Tell him you will consent to a separation, but not a divorce. Threaten to make a scandal about the child, and blacken his name unless he agrees to your terms. You know his family pride. He will shrink from exposure—he will agree to your terms.”
“Clever Finette! Oh, what a brain you have! But after—what then?”
“We will go abroad, you and I. We will let your boy-husband severely alone for a little while. He adored you once—he will not forget you. The scandal will die out, and you will lead a nun’s life. He will be touched, sorry; he will hear of you at last breaking your heart in seclusion for him, and, voilà! there will be a reconciliation.”
Finette had poured out those sentences excitedly, with a mixture of French gestures and phrases impossible to translate. Camille listened breathlessly, her eyes on fire, her cheeks aglow.