at that frightful divorce."

"After all, what does it matter to me?" Adrienne replied.

She threw the accursed _Gazette des Tribunaux_ into the waste basket
with its _Suit of Vauthier vs. Vauthier_. "We are not interested,
neither my husband nor I; he loves me and I love him. I am as sure of
him as he is sure of me. He may demand all the laws that are possible:
it would not be for selfish interest, for he would not profit by them."

"Never!" said Sulpice with a laugh, delighted to be released from the
magnetic influence of Adrienne's strange excitement.

There was, however, a somewhat false ring in this laugh. Face to face
with the avowed trustfulness of his wife, Sulpice experienced a slight
pricking of conscience. He thought of Marianne. His passion increased
tenfold, but this very increase of affection made him afraid. He
hastened to find himself again at Rue Prony. The Hotel Beauvau depressed
him. It became more than ever a prison. How gladly he escaped from it!

Yes, it was a prison for him as it was for Adrienne; a prison that he
fled from to seek Marianne's boudoir, to enjoy her kisses and mirth,
while, at the same moment, his wife, the dear abandoned, disdained
creature, sad without being cognizant of the cause of her melancholy,
terrified by the emptiness of that grand ministerial mansion, that
"sounded hollow," as she said, quietly and stealthily took the official
carriage that Vaudrey sent back to her from the Chamber, and had herself
driven--where?--only she knew!

"You ought to make a great many calls," the minister had frequently
said. "It would divert your mind and it is well to appear to know a
great many persons."

But she only found pleasure in making one visit, she gave the coachman
the address of the apartments on Chaussee-d'Antin, where she had lived
long, happy years with Sulpice, sweet and peaceful under the clear light
of the lamp. She entered this deserted apartment, now as cold as a tomb,
and had the shutters opened by the concierge in order that she might see
the sunlight penetrate the room and set all the motes dancing in its
cheerful rays. She shut herself in and remained there happy, consoled;
sitting in the armchair formerly occupied by Sulpice, she pictured him
at the table at which he used to work, his inkstand before him and
surrounded by his books, his cherished books! She lived again the
vanished life. "Return!" she said to the dream, the humble dream she had
at last recovered.