"Will you have the goodness to make your wishes known, madame," responded H. de Luceval, with a sardonic smile. "Certainly." "Go on, madame." "In the first place, we are to separate, quietly, peaceably, and without the slightest scandal." "Ah, indeed!" "It is a thing that is often done, I have heard." "And at seventeen madame expects to roam about the world as she pleases." "Roam about the world! Heaven preserve me from that. Travelling is not at all to my taste, as you know, monsieur." "This is no subject for jesting," exclaimed M. de Luceval, hotly. "Are you really insane enough to imagine that you can live alone and exactly as you please, when your husband has you completely in his power?" "I have no intention of living alone, monsieur." "And with whom does madame expect to live, may I ask?" "Valentine is very unhappy. I intend to live with her and her mother. My fortune is entirely independent of yours, thank Heaven!" "You intend to live with that woman,--a woman who has had a lover, a woman that her husband will drive out of his house this very night--and he is perfectly right!--a woman who deserves the contempt of all decent people. It is with a creature like that you propose to live. The mere announcement of such an intention on your part is quite enough to put you in a madhouse, madame." "M. de Luceval, the extremely disagreeable events of the day have fatigued me very much, and you will oblige me by not annoying me further. I shall merely add that if any one deserves the contempt of all decent people, it is M. d'Infreville, for it was his shameful treatment of his wife that drove her to ruin. As for Valentine, what she deserves, and will always be sure of from me, is the tenderest compassion." "Why, this is outrageous! It is enough to put you in a madhouse, I tell you!" "Understand me once for all, M. de Luceval. No one will shut me up in a madhouse. I shall have my liberty, and you will have yours; and I shall make such use of mine as I think proper." "We will see about that, madame!" "Or rather, you will see, monsieur." CHAPTER VII. FOUR YEARS LATER. Four years have elapsed since the events we have just related. It is a winter's day; the cold is intense, the sky gray and lowering. A woman is walking down the Rue de Vaugirard, pausing now and then to glance at the numbers on the houses, as if in search of some particular one. This woman, who is dressed in mourning, seems to be about twenty-three years of age. She is tall and slender, a decided brunette, with large black eyes, full of expression. Her features are regular, though a little haggard, and her mobile face reveals, in turn, a bitter sadness or a mingled anxiety and impatience. Her quick, somewhat irregular tread also betrays deep agitation.