“I assure you, aunt, that I have never had any notion, true or false, on the subject—for I have never even dreamt about it.”
“That is my own fault; for, instead of yielding to your fancies, I should have made you sooner feel my authority; but the moment has come to submit yourself; the severe censures of my friends have enlightened me in time. Your character is self-willed, independent, stubborn; it must change—either by fair means or by force, understand me, it shall change.”
At these words, pronounced harshly before strangers, with a severity which did not seem at all justified by circumstances, Adrienne tossed her head proudly; but, restraining herself, she answered with a smile: “You say, aunt, that I shall change. I should not be astonished at it. We hear of such odd conversions.”
The princess bit her lips.
“A sincere conversion can never be called odd, as you term it, madame,” said Abbe d’Aigrigny, coldly. “It is, on the contrary, meritorious, and forms an excellent example.”
“Excellent?” answered Adrienne: “that depends! For instance, what if one converts defects into vices?”
“What do you mean, madame?” cried the princess.
“I am speaking of myself, aunt; you reproach me of being independent and resolute—suppose I were to become hypocritical and wicked? In truth, I prefer keeping my dear little faults, which I love like spoiled children. I know what I am; I do not know what I might be.”
“But you must acknowledge, Mdlle. Adrienne,” said Baron Tripeaud, with a self-conceited and sententious air, “that a conversion—”
