Mme. de Céran. Aunt!
Duchess. Of course, your husband was a fool!
Mme. de Céran. Duchess!
Duchess. A fool who happened to know how to behave himself! You forced him into politics, you’ll admit that. And then, all you could make of him was Minister of Agriculture and Commerce. That isn’t much to boast about. But enough of him; Roger’s another matter: he has brains and spirit enough—or will have, God willing—or he’s no nephew of mine. That never occurred to you, did it?
Mme. de Céran. I am thinking of his career.
Duchess. And his happiness?
Mme. de Céran. I have thought of that, too.
Duchess. Ah, yes! Lucy, eh? They correspond, I know that. That’s fine! A young girl who wears glasses and has a neck like a——! And you call that thinking of his happiness!
Mme. de Céran. Duchess, you are quite incorrigible!
Duchess. A sort of meteorite, who fell among us, intending to stop two weeks, and remained two years: a blue-stocking who writes letters to scholars and translates Schopenhauer!