“Justice! Oh, let him have justice, de tout mon caeur; but I say, if he be a man in love, he is de oddest man in love I ever happen to see; he eat, drink, sleep, talk, laugh, se possede tout comme un autre. Bon Dieu! I would not give noting at all myself for such a sort of a lover. Mon enfant, dis is not de way I would wish to see you loved; dis is not de way no man ought for to dare for to love you.”
“And how ought I to be loved?” asked Lady Augusta, impatiently.
“La belle question! Eh! don’t every body, de stupidest person in de world, know how dey ought to be love? Mais passionnément, éperdument—dere is a—a je ne sais quoi dat infailliblement distinguish de true lover from de false.”
“Then,” said Lady Augusta, “you really don’t think that Mr. Mountague loves me?”
“Tink!” replied mademoiselle, “I don’t tink about it; but have not I said enough? Open your eyes; make your own comparaisons.”
Before Lady Augusta had made her comparisons, a knock at the door from her maid came to let her know that Lord George was waiting.
“Ah! milord George! I won’t keep you den: va t’en.”
“But now, do you know, it was only because I just said that I was going out with Lord George that Mr. Mountague made all this rout.”
“Den let him make his rout; qu’importe? Miladi votre chère mère make no objections. Quelle impertinence! If he was milord duc he could not give himself no more airs. Va, man enfant—Dis a lover! Quel homme, quel tyran! and den, of course, when he grows to be a husband, he will be worserer and worserer, and badderer and badderer, when he grows to be your husband.”
“Oh,” cried Lady Augusta, snatching up her gloves hastily, “my husband he shall never be, I am determined. So now I’ll give him his coup de grace.”