‘But he will call.’
‘I will see him for you.’
‘What will you tell him, my heart,—tell him that I am ill, perhaps?’
‘No; I will tell him the truth,—that you do not wish to see him.’
‘That is hard,—he will wonder.’
‘I think not,’ said Mary, resolutely; ‘and furthermore I shall say to him that, while Madame de Frontignac is at the cottage, it will not be agreeable for us to receive calls from him.’
‘Mary, ma chère, you astonish me!’
‘My dear friend,’ said Mary, ‘it is the only way. This man,—this cruel, wicked, deceitful man,—must not be allowed to trifle with you in this way. I will protect you.’ And she rose up with flashing eye and glowing cheek, looking as her father looked when he protested against the slave-trade.
‘Thou art my Saint Catherine,’ said Verginie, rising up, excited by Mary’s enthusiasm, ‘and hast the sword as well as the palm; but, dear saint, don’t think so very, very badly of him,—he has a noble nature; he has the angel in him.’