“What a life!” groaned the father.
“A woman’s life,” the girl murmured.
“You have a great knowledge of life!” exclaimed the Marquise, finding speech at last.
“Madame, my answers are shaped by the questions; but if you desire it, I will speak more clearly.”
“Speak out, my child... I am a mother.”
Mother and daughter looked each other in the face, and the Marquise said no more. At last she said:
“Hélène, if you have any reproaches to make, I would rather bear them than see you go away with a man from whom the whole world shrinks in horror.”
“Then you see yourself, madame, that but for me he would be quite alone.”
“That will do, madame,” the General cried; “we have but one daughter left to us now,” and he looked at Moïna, who slept on. “As for you,” he added, turning to Hélène, “I will put you in a convent.”
“So be it, father,” she said, in calm despair, “I shall die there. You are answerable to God alone for my life and for his soul.”