“Darling, indeed!” said Pensée. “I can tell you I am tired of being a darling. There are limits.... I have no patience with Brigit, and Robert drives me to the conclusion that good men are fools—fools! I suppose he told you that I was in town again?”
“Yes.”
“Well, he won't come and see me himself because she is here.”
“That is merely a decision on principle. He longs to come.”
“Quite so. But the girl does not deserve him.”
Sara showed no astonishment; she maintained her thoughtful air, and replied with tranquillity—
“He thinks she is perfect.”
“I find no vulgar faults in her, myself, although there seems no foolish thing left that she hasn't done. I am sure that every one will think her light, worldly, and frivolous. Let me say what I have been through. After the first terrible day and night at St. Malo, there was no more crying. There was not another tear. We went to Paris. She spent all her mornings at Notre Dame, all her afternoons with old Monsieur Lanitaux of the Conservatoire, all her evenings at the theatre. She found many of her mother's old friends. In the theatrical world I find much loyalty toward those actually born in the profession. They treated her as though she were a young queen. Lanitaux managed to get her privately before the Empress Eugénie. She sang for the Empress: the Empress cried and gave her an emerald ring.”
“Then she has talent.”
“Genius, I believe,” said Pensée, solemnly. “This makes her hateful and lovable at the same moment. She is determined to be an actress. She never speaks of Robert, and she shuts herself up in her room reciting Marivaux and Molière. The d'Alchingens have invited her to Hadley next Saturday. They encourage her theatrical ideas. And why? They wish her to lose caste. She is an Archduchess, Sara, an Alberian Archduchess. What a living argument against unequal marriages!”