“That makes no difference. I am afraid of insane people. When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders. “What do you wish, then?” she asked, sarcastically.
“I thought—I wondered—if you wouldn’t take me with you.”
“To Paris! You are crazy, I do believe. What would you do there?”
“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”
“Impossible, aunt, impossible!”
Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair. “And what if I told you that I can’t remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”
Blanche flushed with impatience. “You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, roughly. And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added: “If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste. You are free and of age.”
Aunt Medea turned very pale, and bit her lips. “That is to say,” she said at last, “that you allow me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital. Thanks, my niece, thanks. That is like you. I expected nothing less from you. Thanks!” She raised her head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening fashion. “Very well! this decides me,” she continued. “I entreated you, and you brutally refused my request, so now I command you and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris—and I shall go. Ah! so it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like this; but I’ve endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now I rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is true you’ve given me shelter—fed and lodged me, but you’ve taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I’ve had to endure? Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me—your own flesh and blood? And I have had no wages, on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance. Ah, you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor. How you have insulted me—humiliated me—trampled me under foot!”
The rebellious chaperone paused again. The bitter rancour which had been accumulating in her heart for years fairly choked her; but after a moment, she resumed in a tone of irony: “You ask me what I should do in Paris? I should enjoy myself, like you. You will go to court, to the play—into society, won’t you? Very well, I will accompany you. I will attend these fetes. I will have handsome toilettes too. I have rarely seen myself in anything but shabby black woollen dresses. Have you ever thought of giving me the pleasure of possessing a handsome dress? Twice a-year, perhaps, you have given me a black silk, recommending me to take good care of it. But it was not for my sake that you went to this expense. It was for your own sake, and in order that your poor relation should do honour to your generosity. You dressed me in it, like you put your lacqueys in livery, through vanity. And I endured all this; I made myself insignificant and humble; and when I was buffeted on one cheek, I offered the other. For after all I must live—I must have food. And you, Blanche, how often haven’t you said to me so that I might do your bidding, ‘You must obey me, if you wish to remain at Courtornieu!’ And I obeyed you—I was forced to obey, as I didn’t know where else to go. Ah! you have abused my poverty in every way; but now my turn has come!”