“And what, then, was your motive for prying, meddling, cross-questioning as you did? You had a motive?”
“I have always had an interest in your welfare, Claire, but your mother was my motive for meddling and cross-questioning, as you put it.”
“Oh—my mother!” Claire tossed her a look where she sat, her arms folded, near the table. “You were afraid for my honor since hers was involved in it? Was that it?”
“Perhaps that was it—and for the same reason I beg you to spare your mother now.”
Claire leaned back in her chair and fixed upon him a heavy stare above her heavy flush. “Come,” she said, “I have never had pretenses with you—I have always been frank. Do you intend to marry me? There it is clearly; I have no false delicacy, and, bon Dieu! you have given me every right to ask the question.”
Madame Vicaud, soundless at the table, now leaned her elbows upon it and covered her face with her hands. “Come,” Claire repeated, casting another look upon her; “for Mamma’s sake, you owe me an answer. Spare her the shame—she feels it bitterly, you observe—of seeing my outrageous uncertainty prolonged. Haven’t you spent all your time with me? Haven’t you taken upon yourself a position of authority toward me—made my affairs your own? Aren’t you going to—how would Mamma put it?—redeem me—lift me? Or are you going to let my soul suffer a little longer?”
“You could hardly speak so, Claire, if you spoke sincerely,” said Damier; “you may once have misinterpreted my friendship for you, but you no longer misinterpret it. I have never intended to marry you. It is you, remember, who force me into this ugly attitude. I could not face you in it, were I not sure that your feeling for me has always been as free from anything amorous as mine for you.”
“I don’t speak of my feeling for you!” Claire cried in a voice suddenly loud, leaning forward with her elbows on the arms of her chair, “but of yours for me! It is not there now—I see it plainly, and I see plainly why! She—she—has been talking to you against me!—telling you about some childish follies in my life!—making you believe that I would not be a fit wife for you! Ah, yes!—I know her!” Claire pointed a shaking finger at her mother. “She would think it her duty to protect you against me—I know her!”
“Be still,” said Damier in his voice of steel.
Claire, for a moment, sank back, panting, defiant, but silent before it.