Raymond Cernay made an angry movement. Apparently he did not admit the possibility of the least opposition from any one, or possibly he was in a highly nervous condition.
“No, no, no,” he repeated, “you will come.”
“I am exceedingly sorry.”
“I wish it.”
I could not keep from smiling as I listened to him storming, ordering and commanding. He was ashamed of making an exhibition of his temper, and he changed his tone with a promptitude that amazed and touched me.
“Yes,” he said. “I am not yet chastened. Shall I ever be? It is not easy when one has taken the wrong turn from childhood. I always knew that I could satisfy every one of my whims, and so I could not endure opposition. Even misfortune does not always succeed in humbling us. You must excuse my brusqueness.”
Then he added, pleadingly:
“Won’t you come with me. They are waiting for you, M. and Mme. Mairieux, and Dilette especially. Dilette wants you. She asks every one for stories, stories like yours. I cannot tell them to her; I have never learned them.”
“Ah, Dilette wants me.”
He dwelt upon his daughter’s wishes, until out of respect to my wild little friend, whom I was proud to have conquered, I permitted myself to be convinced, or rather to be carried off, for we left without delay, he on Zeno and I on my bicycle. My luggage would be sent for. That evening I was installed in the chateau.