The young woman looked crestfallen and feigned fear. She hypocritically looked to the right and to the left, as though seeking protection and as though afraid of violence from her husband.
“You ought to be ashamed,” exclaimed Mademoiselle Faillot, coming up at that moment, “to treat a woman in such a manner.”
“Please do not meddle in my affairs, Mademoiselle. I do not accuse you of your little peccadilloes, nor do I ask how you dispense the money intrusted to you for the babes of wet-nurses that you have in charge.”
“What! What is that?” shouted the old spinster, turning crimson with rage.
“Mademoiselle, when one has a cousin like Fadard, one need have no uneasiness.”
“Ah, indeed. Not so a man who has married the daughter of a criminal.”
The young bride now interposed. “Mademoiselle,” she said, “you were not invited—at the last moment—to insult my friends.”
“Very well. Then your friends should not make any such insinuations.”
“Oh, if I had a husband like other husbands,” broke in Catherine, “all would go well.”
For an instant Savin was beside himself. To intimate that he was disturbing the festivities was more than the mildest of men could endure. Had he not submitted for over two hours to everything disagreeable for her sake? Besides, had not that Mademoiselle Faillot insulted his wife? And then Catherine—his own wife—had as much as declared that he was responsible for this disgraceful scene.