“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”
“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, in a still more sarcastic manner.
“I thought—I wondered—if you would not 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 should tell you that I cannot remain here—that I dare not—that I should die!”