But, unhappily for the wife, that saying has a double meaning.  The husband does not in any way resemble the public politician.  This great citizen, so liberal to the world about him, so 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 religious opinion in the old house.  Sorrow often falls like a thunderbolt, as it did on Madame Granson; but in this old maid it slowly spread like a drop of oil, which never leaves the stuff that slowly imbibes it.