Now Sylvie, your friend Sylvie--is so
distinctly charming that she becomes provoking and irritating. I am
sure she has told you I am a terrible villain . . ."
"She has never said so,--never spoken one word against you!"
interposed Angela.
"No? That is curious--very curious! But then Sylvie is curious. You
see the position is this;--I wish to give her all I am worth in the
world, but she will not have it,--I wish to love her, but she will
not be loved--"
"Perhaps," said Angela, gaining courage to speak plainly, "Perhaps
your love is not linked with honour?"
"Honour?" echoed the Marquis, lifting his finely arched eyebrows,
"You mean marriage? No--I confess I am not guilty of so much
impudence. For why should the brilliant Sylvie become the Marquise
Fontenelle? It would be a most unhappy fate for her, because if
there WERE a Marquise Fontenelle, my principles would oblige me to
detest her!"
"You would detest your own wife!" said Angela surprised.
"Naturally! It is the fashion. To love one's wife would be petite
bourgoisie--nothing more absurd! It is the height of good form to
neglect one's wife and adore one's mistress,--the arrangement works
perfectly and keeps a man well balanced,--perpetual complaint on one
side, perpetual delight on the other.
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