One day I begged her to tell me the story of her marriage. She replied
in a playful tone: "You will laugh; but you must know I am a countess.
My father, Count so-and-so, had only two daughters. He is a spendthrift,
and has wasted all his patrimony. Having no means to portion off us
girls, he gave my sister in marriage to a corn-factor. A substantial
merchant of about fifty years fell in love with me, and my father
married me to him without a farthing of dowry. At that time I was only
fifteen. Two years have passed since I became the wife of a man who,
barring the austerity of his old-fashioned manners, is excellent, who
maintains me in opulence, and who worships me." (I knew all about the
Count her father, his prodigality and vicious living.) "But during the
two years of your marriage," said I, "have you had no children?" The
young lady showed some displeasure at this question. She blushed deeply,
and replied with a grave haughtiness: "Your curiosity leads you rather
too far." I was stung by this rebuke, and begged her pardon for the
question I had asked, although I could not perceive anything offensive
in it. My mortification touched her sympathy, and pressing my hand, she
continued as follows: "A friend like you has the right to be acquainted
with the misfortune which I willingly endure, but which saddens and
embitters my existence. Know then that my poor husband is far gone in
lung-disease; consumed with fever, powerless; in fact, he is no husband.
Nearly all night long he sheds bitter tears, entreating forgiveness for
the sacrifice imposed upon me of my youth. His words are so ingenuous,
so cordial, that they make me weep in my turn, less for my own than for
his misfortune. I try to comfort him, to flatter him with the hope that
he may yet recover. I assure you that if my blood could be of help, I
would give it all to save his life. He has executed a legal instrument,
recognising my marriage dowry at a sum of 8000 ducats, and is constantly
trying to secure my toleration by generous gifts. One day he pours
ducats into my lap, then sequins, then great golden medals; at another
time it is a ring or a sprig of brilliants; now he brings stuffs for
dresses or bales of the finest linen, always repeating: 'Put them by,
dear girl. Before long you will be a widow. It is the desire of my soul
that in the future you may enjoy happier days than those which now
enchain you to a fatal union.' There then is the story of my marriage