“True, my poor boy,” said the notary, with a comforting nod or two; “your ward rebels upon that.”
“Rebels is too soft a word,” retorted Obenreizer. “My ward revolts from me with horror. My ward defies me. My ward withdraws herself from my authority, and takes shelter (Madame Dor with her) in the house of that English lawyer, Mr. Bintrey, who replies to your summons to her to submit herself to my authority, that she will not do so.”
“—And who afterwards writes,” said the notary, moving his large snuff-box to look among the papers underneath it for the letter, “that he is coming to confer with me.”
“Indeed?” replied Obenreizer, rather checked. “Well, sir. Have I no legal rights?”
“Assuredly, my poor boy,” returned the notary. “All but felons have their legal rights.”
“And who calls me felon?” said Obenreizer, fiercely.
“No one. Be calm under your wrongs. If the House of Defresnier would call you felon, indeed, we should know how to deal with them.”
While saying these words, he had handed Bintrey’s very short letter to Obenreizer, who now read it and gave it back.
“In saying,” observed Obenreizer, with recovered composure, “that he is coming to confer with you, this English lawyer means that he is coming to deny my authority over my ward.”
“You think so?”