“That counts for nothing.”
“But how is Savin concerned?”
“True—I had forgotten. Savin, full of sympathy and kind-heartedness, took D’Angerolles’s part in the affair and bravely upheld him from beginning to end. Nobody could speak aught against Catherine’s father before him.”
“Did he love her at that time?”
“It appears not. But her youth, after her father’s death, appealed to him. She was all alone and unprotected from the taunts of malevolent persons who went so far as to call her the daughter of an assassin. None spoke to her save to insult her, and her life was wretched. Poor child! She cried day and night. Somebody advised her to go away—to Paris—where no questions would be asked. But Savin came to the rescue. He learned how cruelly people were talking about her and he was incensed. He picked many a quarrel on her account. Among others Rosalie did not hesitate to calumniate Mademoiselle d’Angerolles and to insinuate that between her and Savin too intimate relations existed. At this Barrau was furious, of course, and the upshot of it all was that he protected Catherine by making her his wife. Nobody now dares to say a word. But it was a queer thing, after all. Had she been a peasant, it would have seemed different. But her father was a gentleman, and it appears she has no common talent for learning.”
“That is nothing derogatory to her character, my friend.”
“No, but we do not live like Parisians here. A different ménage might better please the haughty Catherine.”
“Pshaw! Her lot should be a happy one.”
“Come, come,” breaks out Andoche, “let us drink to our Mayor’s health.”
“Thanks, thanks, Andoche; but none for me, if you please.”