“Dear papa, let me tell you.”
“Rather listen to me, poor child, and let me show you to what dangers, to what misfortunes, you expose yourself. To go and spend a night at this prison would be risking, understand me well, your honor,—that tender, delicate honor which is tarnished by a breath, which involves the happiness and the peace of your whole life.”
“But Jacques’s honor and life are at stake.”
“Poor imprudent girl! How do you know but he would be the very first to blame you cruelly for such a step?”
“He?”
“Men are made so: the most perfect devotion irritates them at times.”
“Be it so. I would rather endure Jacques’s unjust reproaches than the idea of not having done my duty.”
M. de Chandore began to despair.
“And if I were to beg you, Dionysia, instead of commanding. If your old grandfather were to beseech you on his knees to abandon your fatal project.”
“You would cause me fearful pain, dear papa: but it would be all in vain; for I must resist your prayers, as I must resist your orders.”