With a gesture of contempt, M. Raindal snatched at the nearest of the three, and read:
“Who said that women were no longer interested in history? Surely not our old friend La Crois-Chammerilles, who told me yesterday the following anecdote:
“‘For the last six months, one of our prettiest exotics has been taken up with ancient history. And every week, one of our most noted savants comes to her house to give her lessons.
“‘As to the period of history of which he teaches her, and as to the name of the illustrious professor, seek them in the neighborhood of the Institute and remember also one of the greatest literary successes of last autumn.
“‘Ancient history—old story!’”
M. Raindal gave one push and the other two newspapers fell to the floor.
“Do you dare to soil me with such infamy?”
He stamped with his heels on the papers:
“There, tha what I think of your filthy rags!... Pshaw! To think that my daughter, my own daughter, collects this filth, and in my own home constitutes herself the auxiliary of my enemies!”
He fell back on his chair. Thérèse rushed to him: