“Yes, you are right; I should be ashamed for anyone to know your baseness.”
“But what do you require of me, then? Let us see.”
“I have told you. You must depart instantly, Monsieur. You must accomplish loyally the commission with which I deign to charge you, and on that condition I pardon everything, I forget everything; and what is more,” and she held out her hand to him, “I restore my love.”
Bonacieux was cowardly and avaricious, but he loved his wife. He was softened. A man of fifty cannot long bear malice with a wife of twenty-three. Madame Bonacieux saw that he hesitated.
“Come! Have you decided?” said she.
“But, my dear love, reflect a little upon what you require of me. London is far from Paris, very far, and perhaps the commission with which you charge me is not without dangers?”
“What matters it, if you avoid them?”
“Hold, Madame Bonacieux,” said the mercer, “hold! I positively refuse; intrigues terrify me. I have seen the Bastille. My! Whew! That’s a frightful place, that Bastille! Only to think of it makes my flesh crawl. They threatened me with torture. Do you know what torture is? Wooden points that they stick in between your legs till your bones stick out! No, positively I will not go. And, morbleu , why do you not go yourself? For in truth, I think I have hitherto been deceived in you. I really believe you are a man, and a violent one, too.”
“And you, you are a woman—a miserable woman, stupid and brutal. You are afraid, are you? Well, if you do not go this very instant, I will have you arrested by the queen’s orders, and I will have you placed in the Bastille which you dread so much.”