“You know very well,” Marcelle cried, “that he cannot do that.”
“That is why we shall have to think of something,” grandmama retorted, and at that moment went deliberately towards the door. Her hand was already on the portière and Nicolette stood by undecided what she should do, when suddenly Marcelle sprang forward more like a wild animal, defending its young, than an ailing, timid woman: she interposed her slim, shrunken form between the door and the old woman, and whispered hoarsely, but commandingly:
“What do you want with Bertrand?”
Old Madame, taken aback, raised her aristocratic eyebrows: she looked her daughter-in-law ironically up and down, then, as was her wont, she shrugged her shoulders and tried to push her aside.
“My dear Marcelle,” she said icily, “have you taken leave of your senses?”
“No,” Marcelle replied, in a voice which she was endeavouring to keep steady. “I only want to know what you are going to say to Bertrand.”
“That will depend on what he tells me,” grandmama went on coldly. “You do not suppose, I presume, that the future can be discussed without my having a say in it?”
“Certainly not,” the younger woman rejoined, “seeing that the present is entirely of your making.”
“Then I pray you let me go to Bertrand. I wish to speak with him.”
“We’ll call him. And you shall speak with him in my presence.”