“Papa!” she cried, “you have been cruel to Chris. The door is locked; I can hear her crying—why have you been cruel?” Without waiting to be answered, she flew out again.
Herr Paul seized his hair with both his hands: “Good! Very good! My own child, please! What next then?”
Mrs. Decie rose from her chair languidly. “My head is very bad,” she said, shading her eyes and speaking in low tones: “It is no use making a fuss—nothing can come of this—he has not a penny. Christian will have nothing till you die, which will not be for a long time yet, if you can but avoid an apoplectic fit!”
At these last words Herr Paul gave a start of real disgust. “Hum!” he muttered; it was as if the world were bent on being brutal to him. Mrs. Decie continued:
“If I know anything of this young man, he will not come here again, after the words you have spoken. As for Christian—you had better talk to Nicholas. I am going to lie down.”
Herr Paul nervously fingered the shirt-collar round his stout, short neck.
“Nicholas! Certainly—a good idea. Quelle diable d'afaire!”
'French!' thought Mrs. Decie; 'we shall soon have peace. Poor Christian! I'm sorry! After all, these things are a matter of time and opportunity.' This consoled her a good deal.
But for Christian the hours were a long nightmare of grief and shame, fear and anger. Would he forgive? Would he be true to her? Or would he go away without a word? Since yesterday it was as if she had stepped into another world, and lost it again. In place of that new feeling, intoxicating as wine, what was coming? What bitter; dreadful ending?
A rude entrance this into the life of facts, and primitive emotions!