or saintly in them, nor
anything grand; to them there is no poetry in the senses, only gross
sensuality. Where such jurisprudence prevails, if a woman is not
perpetually tyrannized over, she reduces the man to the condition of a
slave. Under this aspect du Bousquier was again the antithesis of the
chevalier. When he made his final remark, he flung his night-cap to the
foot of the bed, as Pope Gregory did the taper when he fulminated
an excommunication; Suzanne then learned for the first time that du
Bousquier wore a toupet covering his bald spot.

"Please to remember, Monsieur du Bousquier," she replied majestically,
"that in coming here to tell you of this matter I have done my duty;
remember that I have offered you my hand, and asked for yours; but
remember also that I behaved with the dignity of a woman who respects
herself. I have not abased myself to weep like a silly fool; I have not
insisted; I have not tormented you. You now know my situation. You must
see that I cannot stay in Alencon: my mother would beat me, and Madame
Lardot rides a hobby of principles; she'll turn me off. Poor work-girl
that I am, must I go to the hospital? must I beg my bread? No! I'd
rather throw myself into the Brillante or the Sarthe. But isn't it
better that I should go to Paris? My mother could find an excuse to send
me there,--an uncle who wants me, or a dying aunt, or a lady who sends
for me. But I must have some money for the journey and for--you know
what."

This extraordinary piece of news was far more startling to du Bousquier
than to the Chevalier de Valois. Suzanne's fiction introduced such
confusion into the ideas of the old bachelor that he was literally
incapable of sober reflection. Without this agitation and without his
inward delight (for vanity is a swindler which never fails of its dupe),
he would certainly have reflected that, supposing it were true, a
girl like Suzanne, whose heart was not yet spoiled, would have died a
thousand deaths before beginning a discussion of this kind and asking
for money.

"Will you really go to Paris, then?" he said.

A flash of gayety lighted Suzanne's gray eyes as she heard these words;
but the self-satisfied du Bousquier saw nothing.

"Yes, monsieur," she said.

Du Bousquier then began bitter lamentations: he had the last payments
to make on his house; the painter, the mason, the upholsterers must
be paid. Suzanne let him run on; she was listening for the figures. Du
Bousquier