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.  She rambled about those deserted rooms that on every side reminded her of some sweet delight, here it was a kiss of chaste and eternal love, there a smile.  Ah! how easy life would have been there all alone, happy for ever!

The Ministry!  Power!  Popularity!  Fame!  Authority!  What were they worth?

Is all that worth one of the blessed hours in this little dwelling, where the cup of bliss would have been full if the wife could have heard the clear laugh or the faint cry of a child?

Poor Sulpice! how he was exhausting himself now in an overwhelming task!  He was giving his health and life to politics, while here he only experienced peace, consoling caresses and the quieting of every excitement.  On the study-table there still remained some pens and some books that were formerly in constant use.

Adrienne went away with reddened eyes from these pilgrimages, as it were, to her former happiness.  She returned to her carriage and moistened her cambric pocket handkerchief with her warm breath, in order to wipe her eyes so that Sulpice might not see that she had been weeping.  Then when her well-known carriage passed before the shops in the Faubourg Saint-Honore, the wives of mercers or booksellers, dressmakers, young girls, all of whom enviously shook their heads, said to each other: 

“The minister’s wife!—­Ah! she has had a glorious dream!—­She is happy!”

III