“Dear, I know it, I know it, but what will you! My mother has always been accustomed to rule. I often tell her she should have lived a century or two earlier than these degenerate days; and as for Claire and Félicie, they are exactly the same, only she has never allowed them the opportunity to develop, so they are obliged to try their hands on other people. Take my advice, and let them have their way. It will not hurt us, and it will teach you to bless Heaven for having bestowed upon you a husband whom you can twist round your little finger.”
She shook her head.
“You know I don’t want to twist you round my finger.”
“But I am quite willing. Why not spend your energies that way, if my mother will not consent to leave you any other department in which to exercise them.”
They were standing together in one of the deep windows of the château, looking out upon a stately terrace, and a garden brilliant, as the Poissy garden had not been for many years, with the rich colouring of summer flowers. Her hand was in his, and she was silent while he talked. But presently she gave a deep sigh, of which he demanded an explanation. She smiled, and said:
“It is only wonder.”
“Wonder at what!”
“At myself, at you, that we should be here together, and that I should be your wife. I did not think so much about it at the time, but now it seems as if I should never understand how either your mother or my father consented. She has a horror of parvenues, and he—he—”
“Of the idle rich. But you are not so cruel as to call me idle!”
“No.” She looked at him reflectively. “He said that once you were, but that you had changed. What changed you, Léon?”