Naïs bowed in acknowledgment, and looked thoughtful. She was weary to disgust of provincial life. Châtelet had scarcely begun before her mind turned to Paris. Meanwhile Mme. de Bargeton’s adorer found the silence somewhat awkward.
“Dispose of me, I repeat,” he added.
“Thank you,” answered the lady.
“What do you think of doing?”
“I shall see.”
A prolonged pause.
“Are you so fond of that young Rubempré?”
A proud smile stole over her lips, she folded her arms, and fixed her gaze on the curtains. Châtelet went out; he could not read that high heart.
Later in the evening, when Lucien had taken his leave, and likewise the four old gentlemen who came for their whist, without troubling themselves about ill-founded tittle-tattle, M. de Bargeton was preparing to go to bed, and had opened his mouth to bid his wife good-night, when she stopped him.
“Come here, dear, I have something to say to you,” she said, with a certain solemnity.