She
made at eighteen a marriage that was expected to be brilliant, but that
turned out like a lamp that goes out; all smoke and bad smell. M. de
Cintre was sixty years old, and an odious old gentleman. He lived,
however, but a short time, and after his death his family pounced upon
his money, brought a lawsuit against his widow, and pushed things very
hard. Their case was a good one, for M. de Cintre, who had been trustee
for some of his relatives, appeared to have been guilty of some very
irregular practices. In the course of the suit some revelations were
made as to his private history which my sister found so displeasing that
she ceased to defend herself and washed her hands of the property. This
required some pluck, for she was between two fires, her husband's family
opposing her and her own family forcing her. My mother and my brother
wished her to cleave to what they regarded as her rights. But she
resisted firmly, and at last bought her freedom--obtained my mother's
assent to dropping the suit at the price of a promise."
"What was the promise?"
"To do anything else, for the next ten years, that was asked of
her--anything, that is, but marry."
"She had disliked her husband very much?"
"No one knows how much!"
"The marriage had been made in your horrible French way," Newman
continued, "made by the two families, without her having any voice?"
"It was a chapter for a novel.
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