"No," I replied, which after hearing the Countess' version and then Suzanne's, was near the truth.
"First of all, he is a scoundrel, who for years has been using his position here to rob my mother; he must have pocketed hundreds of thousands of francs of ours. Later we will talk of my plans to get rid of him, in which I want you to help me: for I am determined to drive him out of this house. I have known all this, more or less, since I was twelve, but for different reasons I have never thought it worth a storm till now—"
"Till he is taking Suzanne from you."
"True. I know his thefts are not the reason, but they are my best weapon, and at the least a sufficient excuse for his having no handling of my affairs: I am nearly twenty-one, and his power-of-attorney for Mamma shall not hold for me. Then, he insults my father's memory and threatens mother he will make public things to my father's discredit."
"What kind of things?"
"Oh, money-matters, politics; his private life too. Mother is frightened, whimpers to herself 'I dare not.' Then I happen to know a few details about this brute's habits, and that even for a man—even for a man, mark you—he is foul. Not for my own sake, but for her own, she shall not be sacrificed to this beast. I shall stop it. And you will help me, because you are fond of Suzanne."
"No, because I am fond of you."
"For both of us, then. Before you came just now I had made up my mind, crying it out alone, that if ever a man the least bit worthy should want her, I would stifle my jealousy, sacrifice myself, and wish her well."
"But, Mademoiselle—you being you, and your love for your sister being what it is—would you ever admit that any man was the least bit worthy? I don't think you believe there is any such man in the world."