"Why—if I may—if you will forgive my asking—why is the idea of Mademoiselle Suzanne and Monsieur de Fouquier so terrible?"
"I will tell you in a moment. But Elise's manner? What did that mean? She frightened me; she was so hard and bitter. I do not understand. Ah, that would be infinitely worse: the idea of him and Elise. Fouquier one day master of this château, ruler in my house,—ah no, no, there are limits to what I could endure. Yet there is something with one of the two: I feel there is something. But which?"
"Why either, Madame? If Mademoiselle Gros' story about Suzanne is all a lie—"
"It might be a lie. It never does to be too hopeful; I am always nursing false hopes."
"Well, assume it's a lie, which after what you have told me about Mademoiselle Gros' spite sounds likely; well, that disposes of Suzanne; while as to Elise, except for her wild talk, which means nothing except that she was angry, have you the tiniest reason for suspecting anything of her?"
"How comforting to hear you talk so! Somehow I feel there may be nothing in it after all. But if there were, how terrible!"
"Why, Madame?"
"Ah, you don't know. It is de Fouquier."
"He is a cousin—"
"Only a second cousin."