“Ah, here you are. Thanks, Madame la Comtesse,” and he approached to kiss her hand; but she drew back with a reproachful and indignant air.
“What is the matter, madame?” he asked.
“You are, doubtless, not accustomed, monseigneur, to receive such a greeting from the women whom your eminence is in the habit of summoning here.”
“Oh! madame.”
“We are in your petite maison, are we not, sir?” continued she, looking disdainfully around her.
“But, madame——”
“I had hoped that your eminence would have deigned to remember in what rank I was born. I had hoped that you would have been pleased to consider, that if God has made me poor, He has at least left me the pride of my race.”
“Come, come, countess, I took you for a woman of intellect.”
“You call a woman of intellect, it appears, monseigneur, every one who is indifferent to, and laughs at, everything, even dishonor. To these women, pardon me, your eminence, I have been in the habit of giving a different name.”
“No, countess, you deceive yourself; I call a woman of intellect one who listens when you speak to her, and does not speak before having listened.”