The master threw a glance of defiance and hatred at his daughter and then shrugged his shoulders, saying:
“I am sorry for you.... Your unworthy calumnies have not even the excuse of good faith, of being the result of an error.... You are the victim of personal spite.... You resent Mme. Chambannes’ beauty and her charm.... You are an envious girl and a fool!”
“My dear!” begged Mme. Raindal.
“Leave him alone, mother!” Thérèse said, her fingers trembling on the edge of her plate. “Father does not know what he is saying any more.... All I wish is that he were as clear-sighted as other people, that he could perceive the abyss of ridicule towards which he is rushing, and dragging us with him, too.”
M. Raindal, exasperated, struck the table with his fist, and called his wife to witness:
“Do you hear how she dares to treat me?... She has lost her reason.... She is mad....”
“Am I mad!” Thérèse exclaimed.
She ran out to her room and returned almost immediately, throwing three newspapers on the table.
“If I am mad, I am not the only one.... Read this! I take it that they are not all mad, those who write for these sheets....”
Her trembling hands pointed to certain paragraphs on the open pages which had been marked with a pencil.