Many women, incomprehensible in
their tender caprices, long to hear a name pronounced which at other
times they desire to bury in their hearts. Monsieur de Bourbonne did
not interpret Madame Firmiani's agitation exactly in this way: pray
forgive him, all provincials are distrustful.
"Well, monsieur?" said Madame Firmiani, giving him one of those clear,
lucid glances in which we men can never see anything because they
question us too much.
"Well, madame," returned the old man, "do you know what some one came
to tell me in the depths of my province? That my nephew had ruined
himself for you, and that the poor fellow was living in a garret while
you were in silk and gold. Forgive my rustic sincerity; it may be
useful for you to know of these calumnies."
"Stop, monsieur," said Madame Firmiani, with an imperative gesture; "I
know all that. You are too polite to continue this subject if I
request you to leave it, and too gallant--in the old-fashioned sense
of the word," she added with a slight tone of irony--"not to agree
that you have no right to question me. It would be ridiculous in me to
defend myself. I trust that you will have a sufficiently good opinion
of my character to believe in the profound contempt which, I assure
you, I feel for money,--although I was married, without any fortune,
to a man of immense wealth. It is nothing to me whether your nephew is
rich or poor; if I have received him in my house, and do now receive
him, it is because I consider him worthy to be counted among my
friends.
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