husband and his guilty partner.
But now the time was come when the subterfuges must necessarily be at an end, or become too gross not to be seen through. Mr. Thoughtless had seen his friend—had paid the money into his hands, and received a bill from him on the merchant at Bologne. When he delivered it to Mrs. Munden—'Sister,' said he, 'this paper will entitle your guest to the receipt of three hundred louis-d'ors on her arrival at Bologne: but I expect you will oblige her to depart immediately; for it is neither consistent with your reputation to keep her in your house, nor with my peace of mind that she should continue in the kingdom.' To which she replied, with a smile, 'That there was nothing more certain than that his commands, in this point, would be punctually obeyed.'
This lady was rejoiced at having accomplished what she thought so good a work; but, having perceived in Mademoiselle de Roquelair some abatement of her first eagerness for a religious life, she thought proper, on giving her the bill, to repeat to her the words her brother had said on that account: to which the other coolly answered, 'Your brother, Madam, need be under no apprehensions of my offending him in this point, or of giving you any farther trouble.'
This, though no more than what the lovers expected, was yet a dreadful shock to them both: great part of the time they were together that evening was taken up in talking of it. Mademoiselle de Roquelair protested that death was less cruel than being torn from her dear Munden thus early—thus in the infancy of their happiness; and gave some hints that she wished he would hire private lodgings for her: but she knew little of the temper of the man she had to deal with. He loved her as a mistress, but hated the expence of keeping her as a mistress: he therefore evaded all discourse on that head; and told her he fancied that, by pretences such as already had been made, she might still continue in the house. 'Means, at least,' said he, 'might be found out to protract our mutual misfortune, and give us more time to consider what we have to do.'
She agreed, however, to make the experiment; and poor Mrs. Munden was imposed upon, by some new invention, from one day to another, for upwards of a week: but, at last, beginning to fear there was something more at the bottom of these delays than was pretended, and her brother having sent twice in that time to know if his desires had been complied with, she resolved at once to put a period to inconveniences which she thought she could so easily get rid of.
Mademoiselle de Roquelair having staid abroad extremely late one night, she took the opportunity of her having done so, of speaking more plainly to her than her good-nature and complaisance had hitherto permitted her to do: she went up to her chamber next morning; and, with an air which had something of severity in it, 'You keep odd hours, Madam,' said she, 'for a person who affects to be so great a penitent; but I suppose you are now prepared to ease me of all concern on your account.'—'I shall trouble you no longer,' cried the other, 'till the young lady I told you of is ready to depart.'—'You will do well,' resumed Mrs. Munden, 'to remain with her till she is so; for, Madam, I must insist on your removal hence this day.'—'You will not turn me out of doors?' cried Mademoiselle de Roquelair. 'I hope you will not oblige me to an act so contrary to my nature,' replied Mrs. Munden. 'Say, rather, contrary to your power,' returned that audacious woman; and, coming up to her with the most unparalleled assurance, 'This house, which you forbid me,' pursued she, 'I think Mr. Munden is the master of; and I shall, therefore, continue in it till my convenience calls me from it, or he shall tell me I am no longer welcome!'
Impossible is it to describe, and difficult even to conceive, Mrs. Munden's astonishment at these words; to hear a woman thus doubly loaded with guilt and obligations—a woman, who but a few days past had been prostrate at her feet, imploring pity and protection, now all at once ungratefully contemning the benefits she had received, and insolently defying the authority to which she had flown for shelter; all this must certainly give a shock almost beyond the strength of human reason to sustain. 'Mr. Munden!' cried the injured fair-one, with a voice hardly intelligible, 'Mr. Munden!' She could utter no more; but flew down stairs with such rapidity that her feet scarce touched the steps.
Mr. Munden was not quite ready to go out—she found him in his dressing-room; and, throwing herself into a chair, half suffocated with passion, related to him, as well as she was able, the manner in which she had been treated; to which he replied, with a good deal of peevishness, 'Pr'ythee, do not trouble me with these idle stories; Mademoiselle de Roquelair is your guest—I have no concern in your little quarrels.'—'I hope,' said she, 'you will do me that justice which every wife has a right to expect, and convince the French hypocrite that I am too much the mistress of this house for any one to remain in it without my permission.'—'So you would make me the dupe of your resentment!' replied he scornfully; 'but positively I shall not do a rude thing to oblige you or any body else.' In speaking these words, having now adjusted his dress, he flung out of the room without giving her time to add any thing farther on a subject he was wholly unprepared to answer.
What a perplexing whirl of wild imaginations must such a behaviour from a husband excite in a wife, conscious of having done nothing to provoke it! Happy was it for her that love had the least share in her resentment—all her indifference could not enable her to support, with any degree of patience, so palpable a contempt—she returned directly to her own chamber; where, shutting herself up, she gave a loose to agitations too violent for words to represent.
CHAPTER XIX
Relates such things as the reader will, doubtless, think of very great importance, yet will hereafter be found of much greater then he can at present imagine
After this much-injured wife had vented some part of the overflowing passions of her soul in tears and exclamations, she began to consider, with more calmness, in which manner she ought to behave, in so amazing a circumstance. She had not the least propensity in her nature to jealousy; yet she could not think that any thing less than a criminal correspondence between her husband and this Frenchwoman, could induce the one, or embolden the other, to act as they had done towards her.
'Neither divine nor human laws,' said she, 'nor any of those obligations by which I have hitherto looked upon myself as bound, can now compel me any longer to endure the cold neglects, the insults, the tyranny, of this most ungrateful, most perfidious man! I have discharged the duties of my station; I have fully proved I know how to be a good wife, if he had known how to be even a tolerable husband: wherefore, then, should I hesitate to take the opportunity, which this last act of baseness gives me, of easing myself of that heavy yoke I have laboured under for so many cruel months?'
She would not, however, do anything precipitately; it was not sufficient, she thought, that she should be justified to herself, she was willing also to be justified in the opinion of her friends: her brother was the first person to be consulted; she resolved, therefore, to go immediately to him; but as it was necessary to put something in order before her departure, in case she should return no more, she called the maid, who always waited on her in her chamber, to assist her on this occasion.
She locked up her jewels, and what other trinkets she had of value, in an amber-cabinet, and made her wearing-apparel be also disposed of in proper utensils, leaving out only some linen, and other necessaries, for the present use, which she also caused to be packed up. The poor maid, who loved her mistress dearly, and easily guessed the meaning of these preparations, could not refrain weeping all the time she was thus employed. 'Ah, Madam!' cried she, 'what a sad thing it is that married gentlemen will be so foolish!—Hang all the French, I say!'—'What do'st mean, Jenny?' said Mrs. Munden. 'Ah, Madam!' replied she, 'I should have told you before, but that I was afraid of making you uneasy: but, since I find you know how things are, I shall make no secret of it. You may remember, Madam, that you gave me leave last Monday to go to see my sister—she lives in St. Martin's Lane—it would have been nearer for me, indeed, to have gone through the Mews; but, I know not how it happened, I went by Charing Cross; and, just as I was going to cross the way, who should I see pop out of a hackney-coach but my master and this Frenchwoman—they hurried together, arm in arm, into a bagnio—and you know, Madam, some of those places have but an ugly name: for my part, I was so confounded that I scarce knew whether I stood upon my head or my heels;