“I am English, too; half the blood in my veins is English; thus I have a right to a double power of patriotism, possessing an interest in two noble, free, and fortunate countries.”
“You had an English mother?”
“Yes, yes; and you, I suppose, had a mother from the moon or from Utopia, since not a nation in Europe has a claim on your interest?”
“On the contrary, I’m a universal patriot, if you could understand me rightly: my country is the world.”
“Sympathies so widely diffused must be very shallow: will you have the goodness to come to table. Monsieur” (to me who appeared to be now absorbed in reading by moonlight)—“Monsieur, supper is served.”
This was said in quite a different voice to that in which she had been bandying phrases with Mr. Hunsden—not so short, graver and softer.
“Frances, what do you mean by preparing, supper? we had no intention of staying.”
“Ah, monsieur, but you have stayed, and supper is prepared; you have only the alternative of eating it.”
The meal was a foreign one, of course; it consisted in two small but tasty dishes of meat prepared with skill and served with nicety; a salad and “fromage Français,” completed it. The business of eating interposed a brief truce between the belligerents, but no sooner was supper disposed of than they were at it again. The fresh subject of dispute ran on the spirit of religious intolerance which Mr. Hunsden affirmed to exist strongly in Switzerland, notwithstanding the professed attachment of the Swiss to freedom. Here Frances had greatly the worst of it, not only because she was unskilled to argue, but because her own real opinions on the point in question happened to coincide pretty nearly with Mr. Hunsden’s, and she only contradicted him out of opposition. At last she gave in, confessing that she thought as he thought, but bidding him take notice that she did not consider herself beaten.
“No more did the French at Waterloo,” said Hunsden.