“But, cousin, what do people love with if not their hearts?”
Here Madame Granson said to herself, as the chevalier had previously thought: “My poor cousin is altogether too innocent; such stupidity passes all bounds!—Dear child,” she continued aloud, “it seems to me that children are not conceived by the spirit only.”
“Why, yes, my dear; the Holy Virgin herself—”
“But, my love, du Bousquier isn’t the Holy Ghost!”
“True,” said the old maid; “he is a man!—a man whose personal appearance makes him dangerous enough for his friends to advise him to marry.”
“You could yourself bring about that result, cousin.”
“How so?” said the old maid, with the meekness of Christian charity.
“By not receiving him in your house until he marries. You owe it to good morals and to religion to manifest under such circumstances an exemplary displeasure.”
“On my return from Prebaudet we will talk further of this, my dear Madame Granson. I will consult my uncle and the Abbe Couturier,” said Mademoiselle Cormon, returning to the salon, where the animation was now at its height.
The lights, the group of women in their best clothes, the solemn tone, the dignified air of the assembly, made Mademoiselle Cormon not a little proud of her company. To many persons nothing better could be seen in Paris in the highest society.