“It is quite certain,” said Phellion, “that there are dark depths in Monsieur de la Peyrade where light does not penetrate.”
“And as I myself had the misfortune to marry a man of his description, the thought of the wretchedness to which Celeste would be condemned by so fatal a connection, impels me, in the hope of saving her, to the charitable effort which now, I trust, has ceased to surprise you.”
“Madame,” said Phellion, “we do not need the conclusive explanations by which you illumine your conduct; but as to the faults on our part, which have thwarted your generous efforts, I must declare that in order to avoid committing them in future, it seems to me not a little desirable that you should plainly indicate them.”
“How long is it,” asked the countess, “since any of your family have paid a visit to the Thuilliers’?”
“If my memory serves me,” said Phellion, “I think we were all there the Sunday after the dinner for the house-warming.”
“Fifteen whole days of absence!” exclaimed the countess; “and you think that nothing of importance could happen in fifteen days?”
“No, indeed! did not three glorious days in July, 1830, cast down a perjured dynasty and found the noble order of things under which we now live?”
“You see it yourself!” said the countess. “Now, tell me, during that evening, fifteen days ago, did nothing serious take place between your son and Celeste?”
“Something did occur,” replied Phellion,—“a very disagreeable conversation on the subject of my son’s religious opinions; it must be owned that our good Celeste, who in all other respects has a charming nature, is a trifle fanatic in the matter of piety.”
“I agree to that,” said the countess; “but she was brought up by the mother whom you know; she was never shown the face of true piety; she saw only the mimicry of it. Repentant Magdalens of the Madame Colleville species always assume an air of wishing to retire to a desert with their death’s-head and crossed bones. They think they can’t get salvation at a cheaper rate. But after all, what did Celeste ask of Monsieur Felix? Merely that he would read ‘The Imitation of Christ.’”