“No, ten. Not a penny more or less.” “Very well; I will give you ten thousand francs. Give me the letters. Swear that they are all here!” “Look at the dates. They are really all here. They are numbered too by the count, with red ink, perhaps with his blood.” And here there was a loud laugh. “When you bring me the ten thousand francs I will give you the letters, not before.” ⁂ The compact was made, the letters were returned, the sum was paid. The husband paid Nina’s milliner’s bill, and has gone to Paris. Indeed, he has already returned and is still living in the house of his wife, with whom he hopes soon to be able to negotiate a new ransom. And she? She has a new lover to whom she never writes and from whom she will not receive any letters. When he complains of this strange proceeding she throws her arms round his neck and, kissing him, says: “Is it not better, dear, to have a kiss the more and a letter the less?” And the husband has waited a long time in vain, hoping to discover a new packet of perfumed letters, tied with a golden cord, all marked in progressive numbers, written with red ink, perhaps with blood. CHAPTER X. PURGATORY. But few marriages are a hell, and fewer still enjoy the highest beatitudes of heaven; the most stand halfway between the two—that is, in purgatory. There they live without redemption, which means without any hope of mounting to heaven; but neither have they any fear of being hurled down among the fallen angels. After a more or less lengthy honeymoon they descend gradually to earth, now walking amongst nettles and thorns, now amongst the flowering beds of the garden, to remain there till death. To describe all the forms and accidents of this conjugal purgatory would be to exhaust the human universe. It is enough for me to present some scenes taken from life, so that you can judge of the rest from these examples. ⁂ It is eight o’clock in the morning; he has been awake for some time; she is sleeping soundly and sweetly. He had been quiet and silent for more than an hour, reading the paper, smoking a cigarette, looking at his wife with the fond hope that she may wake up of herself, but in vain. Then he coughed several times, used his handkerchief without needing it, shook the bed, but in vain. The waiting had become impatience; impatience had changed to a troublesome, insupportable agitation. Then he gave her a sweet, light little kiss on her lips. She woke with a start and stared at him—he who had expected a smile or an answer on a par with the question. “How you frightened me! Why did you wake me so suddenly?” “I thought my kiss would have pleased you, and hoped to wake you gradually without giving you a shock.” “But you know—you know very well that for some time past waking me in that way has hurt me. It gives me palpitation of the heart, and then I feel ill all day.”