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fortune that had befallen Marie when she, a common
nobleman’s daughter, had become the bride of a man who might
have brought home a princess of the blood. Without the
slightest provocation, he went on to impress upon Marie
that he meant to be master of his own house, and she must
obey his lightest nod, he would brook no gainsaying, no,
not a word, not one. However high he might raise her, she
would always be his slave, his little slave, his sweet little
slave, and at that he became as gentle as a sportive lynx,
wept and wheedled. With all the importunity of a drunken
man he forced upon her gross caresses and vulgar
endearments, unavoidable, inescapable.
The next morning Marie awoke long before Ulrik
Frederik. She looked almost with hatred on the sleeping figure
at her side. Her wrist was swollen and ached from his
violent greeting of the night before. He lay with muscular arms
thrown back under his powerful, hairy neck. His broad
chest rose and fell, breathing, it seemed to her, a careless
defiance, and there was a vacant smile of satiety on his
dull, moist lips.
She paled with anger and reddened with shame as she
looked at him. Almost a stranger to her after their long
parting, he had forced himself upon her, demanding her
love as his right, cocksure that all the devotion and passion
of her soul were his, just as he would be sure of finding
his furniture standing where he left it when he went out.
Confident of being missed, he had supposed that all her
longings had taken wing from her trembling lips to him
in the distance, and that the goal of all her desire was his
own broad breast.
When Ulrik Frederik came out he found her half sitting,
half reclining on a couch in the blue room. She was pale,
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