Beneath her sister’s caress, Bettina grew calm, soothed.
“It is over, I am better now, and I can talk to you. It is about Jean.”
“Jean! You call him Jean?”
“Yes, I call him Jean. Have you not noticed for some time that he was dull and looked quite melancholy?”
“Yes, I have.”
“When he came, he went and posted himself near you, and stayed there, silent, absorbed to such a degree, that for several days I asked myself—pardon me for speaking to you with such frankness, it is my way, you know—I asked myself if it were not you whom he loved, Susie; you are so charming, it would have been so natural! But no, it was not you, it was I!”
“You?”
“Yes, I. Listen, he scarcely dared to look at me, he avoided me, he fled from me, he was afraid of me, evidently afraid. Now, in justice, am I a person to inspire fear? I am sure I am not!”
“Certainly not!”
“Ah! it was not I of whom he was afraid, it was my money, my horrid money! This money which attracts all the others and tempts them so much, this money terrifies him, drives him desperate, because he is not like the others, because he—”