"Ah! Very poetical, your dear father, but not very sentimental. I told him so. He said the best poetry was the highest good sense. I do not quite understand him, I confess. Allons! I am afraid I do. He is a philosopher. He also—well, well!"
"He also—what?"
"Nothing," said Monsieur Joseph, shortly. "What is to be done then, to help you?"
"I am afraid—for her sake—I must not go quite so much to Lancilly. Not for a few days, at least, till last night is forgotten. I cannot meet her before all those people, with their eyes upon me. I believe Madame de Sainfoy saw that I was lying, that I would give my life for what I seemed to refuse."
"Do you think so? No, no, she laughed and teased and questioned me with the others."
"Nevertheless, I think so. But I must know that Hélène is well and safe and not tormented. Uncle Joseph, if you could go there a little oftener—you might see her sometimes—"
"How often?"
"Every two days, for instance?"
Monsieur Joseph smiled sweetly.
"No, mon petit. What should take me to Lancilly every two days? I have not much to say to Hervé; his ideas are not mine, either on sport or on politics. And as to Madame Adélaïde—no—we do not love each other. She is impatient of me—I distrust her. She has Urbain, and one in the family is enough, I think. Voyons! Would your Mademoiselle Moineau do any harm to Riette?"