“Talent—talent!—bé, yes—I don’t deny that—but much too exotic—” and, raising his umbrella:
“Let us beware of the South, little sister, let’s beware of the South—don’t work it too hard—Paris will grow weary.”
And he resumed his walk with measured steps, quiet and cool as if he were a citizen of Copenhagen. The silence was unbroken save for the crackling of the gravel under his feet, which in certain circumstances seems to indicate the crushing or crumbling effect of a fit of rage or of a dream.
When they reached the front of the hotel, from the ten windows of whose enormous dining-room there came the noise of hungry spoons clattering on bottoms of plates, Hortense stopped, and, raising her head:
“So then, this poor boy—you’re going to abandon him?”
“What is to be done?—there is no use fighting against it—since Paris doesn’t care for him.”
She gave him an indignant glance which was almost one of disdain.
“Oh, it is horrible, what you are saying; well, as for me, I am prouder than you are; I am true to my enthusiasms!”
She crossed the porch of the hotel with two skips.
“Hortense, the second bell has sounded!”