That an ambitious abbe should control the happiness of a man of Montriveau’s temper, and by underhand ways! The thought burst in a furious tide over his face, clenched his fists, and set him chafing and pacing to and fro; but when he came back to his place intending to make a scene, a single look from the Duchess was enough. He was quiet.
Any other woman would have been put out by her lover’s gloomy silence; it was quite otherwise with Mme de Langeais. She continued her conversation with M. de Gondrand on the necessity of re-establishing the Church in its ancient splendour. And she talked brilliantly.
The Church, she maintained, ought to be a temporal as well as a spiritual power, stating her case better than the Abbe had done, and regretting that the Chamber of Peers, unlike the English House of Lords, had no bench of bishops. Nevertheless, the Abbe rose, yielded his place to the General, and took his leave, knowing that in Lent he could play a return game. As for the Duchess, Montriveau’s behaviour had excited her curiosity to such a pitch that she scarcely rose to return her director’s low bow.
“What is the matter with you, my friend?”
“Why, I cannot stomach that Abbe of yours.”
“Why did you not take a book?” she asked, careless whether the Abbe, then closing the door, heard her or no.
The General paused, for the gesture which accompanied the Duchess’s speech further increased the exceeding insolence of her words.
“My dear Antoinette, thank you for giving love precedence of the Church; but, for pity’s sake, allow me to ask one question.”
“Oh! you are questioning me! I am quite willing. You are my friend, are you not? I certainly can open the bottom of my heart to you; you will see only one image there.”
“Do you talk about our love to that man?”