“Yes, he became so in the colonies. In a French garrison he would perhaps have kept an abundant covering on his head.”
Isabelle would not own herself vanquished. A spitefulness to which she would not have confessed urged her to attack Jean’s friends, and she went beyond all bounds:
“You heard, I suppose, that your captain’s mother is a perfect phenomenon? She has never set foot in a theatre! I wonder what sort of a life she has led.”
Jean Berlier, who had the greatest respect for Madame Guibert, became bitter.
“She has done what you will never do, Mademoiselle, she has lived for the sake of others.”
“That is not living at all,” retorted Isabelle.
“Do you think so? For my part, I believe that she has lived more than you will ever live, if you were to exist for a hundred years.”
“Oh, indeed! I defy anyone to live at a higher pressure than I do.”
“You get excitement, but that’s not the same thing. Of what effort are you capable?” And then, cutting his lecture short, the young man asked with a laugh: “Are you even capable of a love match?”
“Certainly not! You mean, I suppose, one without money? Thank you for nothing. Fancy vegetating mournfully on dry bread and cotton dresses!” As she spoke, her lovely teeth looked sharp and greedy.