Mme. de Beaudrillart shut her thin lips and remained silent. When she spoke at last, it was to say, in a hushed voice:
“Do not repeat this to your sisters, Léon, unless you wish to degrade your future wife in their eyes. It is all unspeakably bourgeoise.”
“It is charming, whatever it is,” he replied, good-humouredly. “The world goes on, mother, even at Poissy. My great-great-grandfather stormed a castle and killed half a dozen gentlemen to gain a bride; I, his descendant, am—”
“Bidden to a builder’s back parlour to see whether you are approved of! The first was infinitely the more respectable. The world goes fast, as you say, because it is easy enough to go downhill. Even the crimes of the present day are petty and sordid. In old times men smote and slew; now they cheat and steal.”
With a sudden movement Léon turned on his chair and dislodged the kitten, which sprang to the ground and mewed protestingly. The change which every now and then altered his face, and robbed it of its youth, was there now, and it startled his mother.
“My Léon, what is it? You are ill!” she exclaimed, anxiously.
“It is past,” he said, with an effort.
“But what was it!”
“A spasm.”
“My poor boy! I know how it is. You work too hard, and fret yourself over that debt. As if Monsieur de Cadanet would not be happy enough to wait your convenience! Well, there is this to be said for Mademoiselle Bourget: although I know you are indifferent to her dowry, it will free you from worry on that score.” While she spoke she went to a small cupboard, unlocked it, took out a glass and bottle, each of rare design and workmanship, and came back. “There,” she said, pouring a few drops into a glass, and putting it to his lips, “drink. It is an old cordial, which agrees with the Beaudrillart blood. You are better!”