“You cram that little head of yours with all kinds of learned stuff, and then talk of ignorance? What makes you read so much?”
“Because I will not have Raoul ashamed of me.”
Every now and then—not often, and always suddenly—a gust of passion seemed to sweep through the mask under which she relentlessly hid her more spontaneous self. Such a gust had come now. Léon looked at her, amazed at the tone in which the words were spoken, concentrated will passionately pushing them forward, as if they carried a standard of rebellion. She never now complained to him, never invited a suggestion which should shape her conduct towards his mother and sisters, and though he was quite shrewd enough, if he had chosen, to perceive the slights which she had daily to endure, he preferred to shut his eyes, and tell himself that with him and the child she was so happy as to be indifferent. Such a passionate outcry as this shook his easy-going reflections, and annoyed him. But he marched on silently, aware that she would soon curb her rebel tongue with shame at its weakness.
They were walking towards Poissy; a fine rain had browned the road, and, falling on a sun-baked soil, sent up a pleasant smell of growing things. The sky was stormy, a sweet insistence of blue above changing in the west to pale, mysterious green. Low down lay a horizontal flame-coloured line of clouds, broken by nearer drifts of dark grey, tattered and vaporish at the edges and flecked with red. One small portion, rent from the rest, had drifted lightly across the blue above. Nathalie, fronting the sunset, with its level light on her face, looked a very noble woman. The lines had grown a little harder, but not one was mean or weak. It was a face to which poor sinners would look for help, and never look in vain. Léon, glancing at it, felt its force and began to speak, although he had resolved on silence.
“You can’t say, I’m sure, that I’ve ever been ashamed of you.”
She turned, and her gravity melted into a lovely smile.
“Ah, but Raoul is going to be much cleverer than you. If you doubt it, listen to my father. Besides, my friend, I spoke hastily; I did not really mean that he would ever be ashamed of his mother, but that it would be useful for him if I could help him in his work. For, wonderful as it seems, the monkey will have to work one day.”
He had quickly forgotten the reproach he had made against her silence, for he was always more taken up with his own thoughts or actions than with those of others, and went on:
“They want me to go over to dine with them to-morrow. And sleep.”
“The La Ferrayes?”