kindly inspired with love
for his native place, is a despot in his own house, and utterly devoid
of conjugal affection. This man, so profoundly astute, hypocritical, and
sly; this Cromwell of the Val-Noble,--behaves in his home as he behaves
to the aristocracy, whom he caresses in hopes to throttle them. Like his
friend Bernadotte, he wears a velvet glove upon his iron hand. His
wife has given him no children. Suzanne's remark and the chevalier's
insinuations were therefore justified. But the liberal bourgeoisie,
the constitutional-royalist-bourgeoisie, the country-squires, the
magistracy, and the "church party" laid the blame on Madame du
Bousquier. "She was too old," they said; "Monsieur du Bousquier had
married her too late. Besides, it was very lucky for the poor woman;
it was dangerous at her age to bear children!" When Madame du Bousquier
confided, weeping, her periodic despair to Mesdames du Coudrai and du
Ronceret, those ladies would reply,--

"But you are crazy, my dear; you don't know what you are wishing for; a
child would be your death."

Many men, whose hopes were fastened on du Bousquier's triumph, sang his
praises to their wives, who in turn repeated them to the poor wife in
some such speech as this:--

"You are very lucky, dear, to have married such an able man; you'll
escape the misery of women whose husbands are men without energy,
incapable of managing their property, or bringing up their children."

"Your husband is making you queen of the department, my love. He'll
never leave you embarrassed, not he! Why, he leads all Alencon."

"But I wish," said the poor wife, "that he gave less time to the public
and--"

"You are hard to please, my dear Madame du Bousquier. I assure you that
all the women in town envy you your husband."

Misjudged by society, which began by blaming her, the pious woman found
ample opportunity in her home to display her virtues. She lived in
tears, but she never ceased to present to others a placid face. To so
Christian a soul a certain thought which pecked forever at her heart was
a crime: "I loved the Chevalier de Valois," it said; "but I have married
du Bousquier." The love of poor Athanase Granson also rose like a
phantom of remorse, and pursued her even in her dreams. The death of her
uncle, whose griefs at the last burst forth, made her life still more
sorrowful; for she now felt the suffering her uncle must have endured
in witnessing the change of political and rel