A queer, twisted smile passed across Etta's face--the smile of one who
is in agony and will not shriek.
"There are certain stipulations which I must make in self-defence," went
on Paul. "I must ask you to cease all communication of whatever nature
with the Baron de Chauxville. I am not jealous of him--now. I do not
know why."
He paused, as if wondering what the meaning of this might be. Etta knew
it. The knowledge was part of her punishment.
"But," continued her husband. "I am not going to sacrifice the name my
mother bore to the vanity of a French coxcomb. You will be kind enough
to avoid all society where it is likely that you should meet him. If you
disregard my desires in this matter, I shall be compelled to take means
to enforce them."
"What means?"
"I shall reduce your allowance."
Their eyes met, and perhaps that was the bitterest moment in Etta's
life. Dead things are better put out of sight at once. Etta felt that
Paul's dead love would grin at her in every sovereign of the allowance
which was to be hers. She would never get away from it; she could never
shake off its memory.
"Am I to live alone?" asked Etta, suddenly finding her voice.
"That is as you like," answered Paul, perhaps purposely misunderstanding
her. "You are at liberty to have any friend or companion you wish.
Perhaps--your cousin.
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