sins in her former desires for marriage; she regarded herself as justly punished for the sorrow she had brought on Madame Granson, and for the hastened death of her uncle.  Obedient to that religion which commands us to kiss the rod with which the punishment is inflicted, she praised her husband, and publicly approved him.  But in the confessional, or at night, when praying, she wept often, imploring God’s forgiveness for the apostasy of the man who thought the contrary of what he professed, and who desired the destruction of the aristocracy and the Church,—­the two religions of the house of Cormon.

With all her feelings bruised and immolated within her, compelled by duty to make her husband happy, attached to him by a certain indefinable affection, born, perhaps, of habit, her life became one perpetual contradiction.  She had married a man whose conduct and opinions she hated, but whom she was bound to care for with dutiful tenderness.  Often she walked with the angels when du Bousquier ate her preserves or thought the dinner good.  She watched to see that his slightest wish was satisfied.  If he tore off the cover of his newspaper and left it on a table, instead of throwing it away, she would say:—­

“Rene, leave that where it is; monsieur did not place it there without intention.”

If du Bousquier had a journey to take, she was anxious about his trunk, his linen; she took the most minute precautions for his material benefit.  If he went to Prebaudet, she consulted the barometer the evening before to know if the weather would be fine.  She watched for his will in his eyes, like a dog which hears and sees its master while sleeping.  When the stout du Bousquier, touched by this scrupulous love, would take her round the waist and kiss her forehead, saying, “What a good woman you are!” tears of pleasure would come into the eyes of the poor creature.  It is probably that du Bousquier felt himself obliged to make certain concessions which obtained for him the respect of Rose-Marie-Victoire; for Catholic virtue does not require a dissimulation as complete as that of Madame du Bousquier.  Often the good saint sat mutely by and listened to the hatred of men who concealed themselves under the cloak of constitutional royalists.  She shuddered as she foresaw the ruin of the Church.  Occasionally she risked a stupid word, an observation which du Bousquier cut short with a glance.

The worries of such an existence ended by stupefying Madame du Bousquier, who found it easier and also more dignified to concentrate her intelligence on her own thoughts and resign herself to lead a life that was purely animal.  She then adopted the submission of a slave, and regarded it as a meritorious deed to accept the degradation in which her husband placed her.  The fulfilment of his will never once caused her to murmur.  The timid sheep went henceforth in the way the shepherd led her; she gave herself up to the severest religious practices, and thought no more of Satan and his works and vanities.  Thus she presented to the eyes of the world a union of all Christian virtues; and du Bousquier was certainly one of the luckiest men in the kingdom of France and of Navarre.