Forget-me-not by Marjorie Bowen — Read

No longer would a neglected wife have to sit lonely in her splendid apartments knowing that Lucille Debelleyme was entertaining her husband in the rooms above. No longer would she, tortured by insomnia, by jealousy, by mental and physical agony be forced to herself descend to espionage and wander miserably up and down the stairs, in and out the corridors, seeking to discover the whereabouts of her husband, of her governess, no longer need she risk an outburst of rage by knocking timidly at his door. She would not do that again; the last time he had frightened her--he had taken her by the shoulders and pushed her across the corridor from his own rooms to hers, in her presence smashed an enamel vase and ripped a lace shawl that she had flung over a chair; the fury of a spoilt child, or the savagery of a man desperately roused? Madame du Boccage did not know; but she was frightened, he was so changed. She had always, until these last few years, thought of him as indolent, sweet-tempered, easily led.

Well, she had triumphed, there would be peace now in the Faubourg St. Honoré; but as she sat lonely as ever that evening, she could not feel that the departure of the governess had lifted any load from her heart. The words her husband had spoken to her still rung in her ears: "You will not go with her to Javiaux du Boccage?--you have spoilt all your life, so, you will not go--we shall see!"