"Celestine," said Hortense to her sister-in-law, who had complained
that in such fine weather her husband should be kept at the Chamber,
"I think you do not fully appreciate your happiness. Victorin is a
perfect angel, and you sometimes torment him."
"My dear, men like to be tormented! Certain ways of teasing are a
proof of affection. If your poor mother had only been--I will not say
exacting, but always prepared to be exacting, you would not have had
so much to grieve over."
"Lisbeth is not come back. I shall have to sing the song of
_Malbrouck_," said Hortense. "I do long for some news of Wenceslas!
--What does he live on? He has not done a thing these two years."
"Victorin saw him, he told me, with that horrible woman not long ago;
and he fancied that she maintains him in idleness.--If you only would,
dear soul, you might bring your husband back to you yet."
Hortense shook her head.
"Believe me," Celestine went on, "the position will ere long be
intolerable. In the first instance, rage, despair, indignation, gave
you strength. The awful disasters that have come upon us since--two
deaths, ruin, and the disappearance of Baron Hulot--have occupied your
mind and heart; but now you live in peace and silence, you will find
it hard to bear the void in your life; and as you cannot, and will
never leave the path of virtue, you will have to be reconciled to
Wenceslas.
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