“Madame,” said Monsieur Pierre Lavalles, “allow me to speak.”

“Monsieur,” said Madame Pierre Lavalles.  “I insist—­”

“But, Madame, it is my—­”

“But, Monsieur, I say I will.”

“And yet I will.”

“But no—­”

“Madame, I shall.”

“Then be careful what you do; M. Perron, M. Lavalles is mad.”

Then the lady, having thus emphatically declared herself, resigned the right of speech to her husband, who began to jerk out in disconnected phrases a statement of his case.  Seven days ago he had annoyed his wife by some incautious word; she had annoyed him by an incautious answer; he had made matters worse by an aggravating retort; and she had widened the breach by a bitter reply.  This little squall was succeeded by a cool calm, and that by a sullen silence, until some sudden friction kindled a new flame, and finally, after successive storms and lulls, there burst forth a furious conflagration, and in the violent collision of their anger, the seven-months’ married pair vowed to separate, and with that resolve had visited M. Perron.  Reconciliation they declared was beyond possibility, and they requested the notary at once to draw up the documents that should consign them to different homes, to subsist on a divided patrimony, in loveless and unhappy marriage.  Each told a tale in turn, and the manner of relation added fuel to the anger of the other.  The man and the woman seemed to have leaped out of their nature in the accession of their passion.  Pity that a quarrel should ever dilate thus, from a cloud the size of a man’s hand to a thunder-storm that covers heaven with its black and dismal canopy.

Neither would listen to reason.  The duty of the notary was to prepare the process by which they were to be separated.

“Monsieur,” he said, “I will arrange the affair for you; but you are acquainted with the laws of France in this respect!”

“I know nothing of the law,” replied M. Pierre Lavalles.

“Madame,” said the notary, “your wish shall be complied with.  But you know what the law says on this head?”

“I never read a law book,” sharply ejaculated Madame Pierre Lavalles.

“Then,” resumed the notary, “the case is this.  You must return to your house, and I will proceed to settle the proceedings with the Judicatory Court at Paris.  They are very strict.  You must furnish me with all the documents relative to property.”

“I have them here,” put in the husband, by way of parenthesis.

“And the whole affair including correspondence, preparations of instruments, &c., will be settled in less than three months.”

“Three months?”

“Three months.  Yes, in less than three months.”

“Then I will live with a friend at the village, until it is finished,” said Madame Lavalles, in a decided, peremptory tone, usual with ladies when they are a little ashamed of themselves, or any one else.