"And will you never again indulge her fancy for society?"
"By —— my good friend, never. She fancies she has a great deal of spirit, and will contrive to rule me; but she does not know Etienne Le Prun—she does not know him—I will treat her like what she is—a child."
"And she will treat you, perhaps, like——"
"Like what?"
"Like what you are—a bridegroom of seventy."
"If she dares. Ay, Blassemare, I have just as little trust as you in what conventionality calls the virtue of the sex. I rely upon my own strong will—the discipline I can put in force, and their salutary fears."
There was here a pause of more than a minute in the dialogue; each appeared to have enough to think of, and the carriage was driving nearly at a gallop under the funereal shadow of the dense and lofty trees. With a fierce start, Monsieur Le Prun cried, suddenly—
"What do you mean?"
"I?—nothing."
"Why do you say that?"