He was cheerful at dinner; he reverted to
the idea of the cheap little house in France; he smirked and simpered;
and talked French to Mrs. Lecount, while the house-maid and Louisa
waited, turn and turn about, under protest. When dinner was over, he
returned to his comfortable chair before the fire, and Mrs. Lecount
followed him. He resumed the conversation--which meant, in his case,
repeating his questions. But he was not so quick and ready with them as
he had been earlier in the day. They began to flag--they continued, at
longer and longer intervals--they ceased altogether. Toward nine o'clock
he fell asleep again.
It was not a quiet sleep this time. He muttered, and ground his teeth,
and rolled his head from side to side of the chair. Mrs. Lecount
purposely made noise enough to rouse him. He woke, with a vacant eye and
a flushed cheek. He walked about the room restlessly, with a new idea
in his mind--the idea of writing a terrible letter; a letter of eternal
farewell to his wife. How was it to be written? In what language should
he express his feelings? The powers of Shakespeare himself would be
unequal to the emergency! He had been the victim of an outrage entirely
without parallel.
Pages:
937
938
939
940
941
942
943
944
945
946
947
948
949
950
951
952
953
954
955
956
957
958
959
960
961