“You say, Don Frederico,” replied the marchioness, “that in Spain every one is satisfied with his condition. Ah! dear doctor, how much I have to regret in observing that politics—”
“Aunt,” cried Rita, “if we enter upon politics I warn you that Don Frederico will fall into his German machine, Raphael into his English spleen, and that Gracia and I will become tainted with French ennui.”
“Are you not ashamed? Hold your tongue,” said her aunt, laughing.
“To avoid so great a misfortune,” replied Raphael, “I propose to compose a novel among ourselves.”
“Help! help!” cried the countess.
“What extravagance!” said her mother. “Will you write some chef d’œuvre, like those which my daughter is in the habit of reading in the feuilletons published by the French?”
“Why not?” demanded Raphael.
“Because no one will read them,” replied the marchioness; “at least when not given as a Parisian production.”
“What does it matter to us?” replied Raphael. “We will write as the birds sing—for the pleasure of singing, and not for the pleasure of being heard.”
“Do not do it,” observed the marchioness, “do not write up seductions and adulteries. Is it a good thing to render women interesting by their faults? In the eyes of sensible persons, nothing inspires less interest than a young inconsistent woman, and an unchaste woman who neglects her duties.”