“I will give you a written one if you desire it, so that if I depart from my word you will still possess power over me,” she explained, beating an impatient tattoo upon the carpet with her tiny slipper.
“Twenty-five thousand francs,” he repeated. “You want me to sell you your liberty for that, do you?”
“Yes, if it pleases you to put it in that way.” Then, with an air of unconcern, she added: “I merely suggest a bargain which you can either accept or reject. After all, it is, perhaps, immaterial.”
“Your freedom must be worth a good deal to you if you are prepared to pay that price for it,” her husband observed shrewdly.
“I desire to sever the tie, that’s all.”
“You enjoy perfect liberty,” remarked the captain. “What more can you desire?”
“I cannot marry.”
“Is that your intention?” he inquired, half convinced that this was the real cause of her conciliatory attitude.
“I really don’t know,” she answered unconcernedly. “Yet, even if I did, what would it matter if we were legally separated? You could marry also.”
The captain was a polished rogue, and fully alive to the fertility of his wife’s skilful devices. He knew she possessed an inexhaustible, imperturbable confidence, and was wondering what could be the character of the plan she was evidently bent upon carrying into effect. Twisting his moustache thoughtfully, he kept his keen eyes fixed upon her.