"I, too, am in earnest, madame,--very much in earnest." "That is what makes the whole affair so irresistibly comical." "Take care, madame, do not drive me to desperation." "Oh, threaten me with the North Pole at once, and let that be the end of it." "I have no intention of resorting to threats, madame. I merely wish to impress upon your mind the fact that the time for weakness is past, so when it suits me to start on a journey,--and that moment is, perhaps, nearer than you think,--I shall notify you one week in advance, so you may have time to make all needful preparations; then, willing or not, when the post-horses come, you will enter the carriage." "If not, the magistrate, and a 'In the name of the law, follow your husband,' I suppose, monsieur." "Yes, madame. You may sneer as much as you please, but you will follow me at the law's bidding, for you must realise that some guaranties in relation to such a serious and sacred thing as marriage must and do exist. After all, a man's happiness and peace of mind must not be at the mercy of the slightest caprice of a spoiled child." "Caprice! that is ridiculous. I have a horror of travelling, the slightest fatigue is intolerable to me, and because you take it into your head to rival the Wandering Jew, I am to be compelled to follow you?" "Yes, madame; and I will prove to you that--" "M. de Luceval, I hate controversy. It is entirely too much trouble. So, to put an end to this discussion, I will merely say that I shall not accompany you on a single one of your journeys, even if it be merely from here to St. Cloud. You shall see if I do not keep my word." And Florence threw herself back in her armchair again, crossed her little feet, and closed her eyes, as if completely exhausted. "Madame," exclaimed M. de Luceval, "this is not to be borne. I will not permit this disdainful silence!" All her husband's efforts to extort a word from her proved futile, however, and despairing, at last, of overcoming his wife's obstinacy, he departed, in high dudgeon. M. de Luceval was perfectly sincere in saying what he did, for, being passionately fond of travel himself, he could not believe that his wife really loathed it, and he was the more incredulous on this point as, when he married Florence, he had persuaded himself that a child of sixteen, an orphan, who had spent her life in a convent, could not have much will of her own, and would be delighted to travel. In fact, he had felt certain that such a proposal would prove a delightful surprise to her.