“Because I would work, fight, starve!”
She walked swiftly up and down the room like some caged creature.
“Léon is a man, and it doesn’t seem that he can do anything.”
“No, but I would!” cried Claire, flinging back her head. “If I could only be out in the world, you would see that I should not allow myself to be beaten!”
Félicie shuddered.
“That terrible world. I give constant thanks that I am not forced into it. It is wicked of you, Claire, even to wish to be there; for what would become of you in all its temptations?”
“I should get through them somehow, like other people, I suppose,” said the younger sister, recklessly. “You and I are different, Félicie. I do not profess to be devote. All your good little fripperies would weary me—oh, weary me to death! I could not ask permission from the abbé as to every book I read, almost as to every word I spoke, nor, though there is time enough on one’s hands, Heaven knows, spend it in collecting money from the peasants, or in working banners. I should hate a convent, unless—perhaps—I were Mother Superior.”
“Yes, we are different,” Félicie placidly agreed. “I am happy to be directed.”
Claire looked at her with a short laugh.
“And yet, my dear, you like your own way, and generally get it.”