“We want you to do nothing, because we know you have changed,” Poupin replied. “Doesn’t it stick out of you, in every glance of your eye and every breath of your lips? It’s only for that, because that alters everything.”
“Does it alter my engagement? There are some things in which one can’t change. I didn’t promise to believe; I promised to obey.”
“We want you to be sincere—that is the great thing,” said Poupin, edifyingly. “I will go to see them—I will make them understand.”
“Ah, you should have done that before!” Madame Poupin groaned.
“I don’t know whom you are talking about, but I will allow no one to meddle in my affairs.” Hyacinth spoke with sudden vehemence; the scene was cruel to his nerves, which were not in a condition to bear it.
“When it is Hoffendahl, it is no good to meddle,” Schinkel remarked, smiling.
“And pray, who is Hoffendahl, and what authority has he got?” demanded Madame Poupin, who had caught his meaning. “Who has put him over us all, and is there nothing to do but to lie down in the dust before him? Let him attend to his little affairs himself, and not put them off on innocent children, no matter whether they are with us or against us.”
This protest went so far that, evidently, Poupin felt a little ashamed of his wife. “He has no authority but what we give him; but you know that we respect him, that he is one of the pure, ma bonne. Hyacinth can do exactly as he likes; he knows that as well as we do. He knows there is not a feather’s weight of compulsion; he knows that, for my part, I long since ceased to expect anything from him.”
“Certainly, there is no compulsion,” said Schinkel. “It’s to take or to leave. Only they keep the books.”
Hyacinth stood there before the three, with his eyes on the floor. “Of course I can do as I like, and what I like is what I shall do. Besides, what are we talking about, with such sudden passion?” he asked, looking up. “I have no summons, I have no sign. When the call reaches me, it will be time to discuss it. Let it come or not come: it’s not my affair.”