For a moment or two Bertrand said nothing. He had jumped to his feet and stood at the foot of the couch, with head bent and a deep frown on his brow.
“I wish you had not told me that, mother,” he said.
“Why not?”
“I love Rixende, and now it will seem as if——”
“As if what?”
“As if I wooed her for the sake of Mme. de Mont-Pahon’s money.”
“That is foolishness, Bertrand,” Mme. de Ventadour said, with more energy than was habitual to her. “Let us suppose that I said nothing. And your grandmother may be wrong. Mme. de Mont-Pahon may only wish for the marriage because of her affection for you and Rixende.”
“You wish it, too, mother, of course?” Bertrand said.
The mother drew a deep sigh of longing.
“Wish it, my dear?” she rejoined. “Wish it? Why, it would turn the hell of my life into a real heaven!”