M. Bourget frowned.
“Madame, when Fauvel objected to what I desired to see done, he had his reasons for objecting. They weren’t worth much, it is true, but—they existed. Perhaps you would also favour me with your reasons?”
Mme. de Beaudrillart folded her hands and looked at the floor. How was it possible to say to this man, “You yourself are the reason?” But he forestalled her.
“I understand, madame. You wish to express to me that Madame Léon cannot boast of Ancient birth, and that I made my money by trade. All that is perfectly true. At the same time, I wish to point out that, however it was made, the money has not been unacceptable. Moreover, whatever my daughter was born, she is now a Beaudrillart.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart remained absolutely silent. It was Nathalie who spoke with an attempt at gaiety.
“It appears to me that I might be allowed a word, and I don’t think anything would be so irksome to me as having my portrait painted. Besides—eighty years! The gap is too great. It is very kind of you, father, but do not think more about it.”
M. Bourget rose.
“On the contrary, it will be carried out.”
Mme. de Beaudrillart also rose.
“Not for the gallery, monsieur.”