“I thank you, Jacques,” said she. “May you be happy as you deserve to be.” A look of disappointment passed over his face, and noticing it Catherine added: “It is not for me to accept or to decline. I am not mistress here.” “Then you, Monsieur Savin, will you not--” But before Jacques had finished speaking Savin took two _dragées_ from the box, eating one and giving the other to his wife. “Catherine exaggerates,” said he. “There are some things that a wife cannot do without consulting her husband, but she accepts your invitation, I am sure, and so do I, with pleasure. You will please accept from me a roebuck--if Madame le Hausseur allows me to kill one.” Catherine bit her lips in mortification and vexation. But Savin had broken the ice, and when he brought out some fine old curaçoa the callers regaled themselves freely and all became merry again. As soon as they had gone Catherine said petulantly: “You need no longer fear that I shall be too gay. I could not be so if I tried.” “I never objected to your having a good time--in a proper way,” replied Barrau gently, but with an unmistakable accent of firmness. “But if I am not to dance it will be absurd for me to go to the wedding.” “Nobody will prevent you from dancing.” “Yes, so you say _to-day_; but when the time comes you will be just as jealous as ever, and I shall have to suffer for it.” “Why talk so foolishly? You only weary me with this useless discussion.” “I know it.” “But believe me, my child, a woman who will excite her husband’s jealousy is either a coquette or a wilful vixen. It rests with you whether Suzanne’s wedding-day shall be an agreeable one to us.” “Agreeable! I suppose it would be so to you if I neither raised my eyes, nor opened my mouth, nor danced with Bruno, nor Firmin, nor Andoche, or any young man whatsoever. But if old Father Mathieu, or Grassy, or Monsieur the Mayor should be so good as to invite me, then I may accept with alacrity. Bah!” Savin, who had hoped to pave the way toward a reconciliation, now saw the folly of the endeavor and replied nothing. Whistling to Patachaud and taking his gun, he left the house. “What a wretched existence!” he muttered as he disappeared under the frost-touched trees. Left alone, Catherine raised her arms toward heaven with an expression of utter despair. “_Mon Dieu!_ how dearly would I pay for freedom,” she cried.