“Ah, no, dear Josephine,” he interrupted. “Decidedly you are wrong. Go to court—swear that you hate me, loathe me, abhor me—swear that life is insupportable with me, and plead for release, and the blessed old law will tell you that you are living, and must live, in holy matrimony! Go to any southern State—go to South Carolina, and state my refined and delicate cruelty. Why, Judge Somebody or other, in the next State, boasts that it is the unfading honor, as he calls it, of South Carolina, that she never has granted a divorce for any cause whatever. Well, go North—go to New York, for instance. Why, their great Panjandrum up there, the ‘Tribune’ man—what’s his name—Greeley—he will tell you that you are living, and must live, in holy matrimony. Bless him!” said Mr. Lafitte, piously. “I love him. I love him well. I hate him for his Abolitionism: I love him for his views on holy matrimony. I hate him because he tries to weaken my power over my slaves: I love him because he tries to strengthen my power over you, my angel. So do the rest of them. Go to any State you like, and they will all tell you that you are living, and must live, in holy matrimony. Every one, except that naughty, naughty Indiana. Ah, the bad State! The wicked, wicked State, that says a discordant marriage is hell, and saves people from it at the expense of holy matrimony! But you couldn’t go there even with your complaint of cruelty, for you haven’t a single witness—not one; and if you had, you wouldn’t go there, and presently I’ll tell you why. Meanwhile, the result is, that there’s no help for you anywhere. As for alleging any little infidelities on my part, that is clearly absurd. Thanks to our good Edward Livingstone’s code, you can get no testimony from the yellow girls, for slaves are not witnesses, you know, in law; and as for getting any legal testimony on that point, that I take care you can’t get, and your convictions are not evidence, my angel. Then, too, observe how the beautiful social system favors me. My little gaieties are reported, for instance, in New Orleans. Well, society does not taboo me. Mrs. Grundy smiles blandly upon me still. The men laugh, and say, ‘Ah, Lafitte, you gay dog!’ The women are soft as cream, and sweet as sugar. Whereas you—suppose even a whisper of that sort about you—even an idle rumor—ah, what a fine howl! You are quite finished at once, my dear.” He shrugged his shoulders, and elevated his eyebrows with a grimace of mock pity, keeping his carnivorous eyes still fixed upon the raging silence of her face.