She could have traded it for gold nuggets and lived like a queen for a few weeks, but she did not. She was silent, the ghost of a fading smile passed from her lips. Gosse had come to Blaye, so he had said, feeling it his duty as the vicomte’s erstwhile secretary to deliver the fateful tidings, bringing with him one of the servant girls, Yolande, who had also escaped the fury of the mob. To wait for hours and hours for the night! The sea empty for days! You forgot the monotony, the endless monotony, that bends you and breaks you and crushes you—you forgot that!" Her voice had steadily risen until it was charged with passionate anger. During all their long comradeship he had never so much as ventured to hold her fingers. And here, we may be permitted to offer an observation upon the peculiar and unaccountable influence which ladies of a shrewish turn so frequently exercise over—we can scarcely, in this case, say—their lords and masters; an influence which seems not merely to extend to the will of the husband, but even to his inclinations. She could smell the sweet girl child he had buried in the garage in autumn, 1 even under the frozen ground. Or become a thorough-going typist and stenographer and secretarial expert.
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