“Do you love me?”
“How can I do otherwise than love you?—But would you not have been wiser to remain at Sancerre?—I am in the most abject poverty, and I fear to drag you into it—”
“Your misery will be paradise to me. I only ask to live here, never to go out—”
“Good God! that is all very fine in words, but—” Dinah sat down and melted into tears as she heard this speech, roughly spoken.
Lousteau could not resist this distress. He clasped the Baroness in his arms and kissed her.
“Do not cry, Didine!” said he; and, as he uttered the words, he saw in the mirror the figure of Madame Cardot, looking at him from the further end of the rooms. “Come, Didine, go with Pamela and get your trunks unloaded,” said he in her ear. “Go; do not cry; we will be happy!”
He led her to the door, and then came back to divert the storm.
“Monsieur,” said Madame Cardot, “I congratulate myself on having resolved to see for myself the home of the man who was to have been my son-in-law. If my daughter were to die of it, she should never be the wife of such a man as you. You must devote yourself to making your Didine happy, monsieur.”
And the virtuous lady walked out, followed by Felicie, who was crying too, for she had become accustomed to Etienne. The dreadful Madame Cardot got into her hackney-coach again, staring insolently at the hapless Dinah, in whose heart the sting still rankled of “that is all very fine in words”; but who, nevertheless, like every woman in love, believed in the murmured, “Do not cry, Didine!”
Lousteau, who was not lacking in the sort of decision which grows out of the vicissitudes of a storm-tossed life, reflected thus: