Gradually recovering from her alarm, and regretting that she had allowed herself to display even a momentary solicitude, Madame de Senneterre retorted, disdainfully:
"Nonsense! A brain fever can be cured by a few bleedings, monsieur, and one dies of love only in novels, and in very poor novels."
"That is a kind and motherly remark, madame, and to keep it company I will say to you, with equal coolness, that if, after you have had time to make proper inquiries and obtain all needful information concerning the young lady of whom I have spoken, you do not take the step expected of you—"
"Well, monsieur?"
"Well, madame, your son will kill himself—"
"Yes, as the disappointed lover does in all the thrilling melodramas," retorted Madame de Senneterre, with an even shriller laugh.
"I tell you that your son will kill himself, you poor fool!" exclaimed the marquis, terrible in his earnestness. "I tell you the last Duc de Senneterre will perish by his own hand like the last Duc de Bretigny!"
This allusion to a recent tragical event, which had been one of the chief topics of conversation at Madame de Mirecourt's ball, gave the duchess a severe shock. She knew Gerald's remarkable energy and determination of character, and consequently knew how much he must suffer from this hidden grief; besides, she had such a profound respect for M. de Maillefort, much as she disliked him personally, that she knew he would be incapable of threatening her with the possibility of Gerald's suicide if he was not really convinced that such a danger was imminent, so the now thoroughly frightened woman cried:
"What you say is terrible, monsieur. The house of De Senneterre become extinct by a suicide!"
The blind pride of race spoke more loudly than maternal love in this cry.