“Is it necessary to make a fuss about a few games at bouillotte?”
This continual defense of Serge exasperated Madame Desvarennes.
“Don’t talk to me,” she continued, violently. “I am well informed on that subject. He leaves you alone every evening to go and play with gentlemen who turn up the king with a dexterity the Legitimists must envy. My dear, shall I tell you his fortune? He commenced with cards; he continues with horses; he will finish with worthless women!”
“Mamma!” cried Micheline, wounded to the heart.
“And your money will pay the piper! But, happily, I am here to put your household matters right. I am going to keep your gentleman so well under that in future he will walk straight, I’ll warrant you!”
Micheline rose and stood before her mother, looking so pale that the latter was frightened.
“Mother,” she said, in trembling tones, “if ever you say one word to my husband, take care! I shall never see you again!”
Madame Desvarennes flinched before her daughter. It was no longer the weak Micheline who trusted to her tears, but a vehement woman ready to defend him whom she loved. And as she remained silent, not daring to speak again:
“Mother,” continued Micheline, with sadness, yet firmly, “this explanation was inevitable; I have suffered beforehand, knowing that I should have to choose between my affection for my husband and my respect for you.”
“Between the one and the other,” said the mistress, bitterly, “you don’t hesitate, I see.”