“If on the other hand, Madame, my sister-in-law, you want an outsider’s opinion, it is at your disposal.”
“Two outsiders, confabing together,” I ventured.
“No,” he spoke abruptly, in a light sharp staccato, a nasal voice, not unpleasant, the voice of the phenomenally intelligent French bourgeoisie. “You are not as I am. You are a woman. They won’t let you in—but they won’t let you out. You belong to them. I don’t—beside I am of their people. I am French—I have my own backing. They don’t like what I represent but they are obliged to admit its importance. It is the backbone of France that I represent, the bread they eat, the stones they walk on, the nation they ground under their heels in the old days. They stamp on me now, but only in play, only to save their faces—not seriously—they can’t. You, Madame, are different. You are a foreigner, and ‘sans défense.’ La famille de Joigny have a contempt for foreigners. Your protectors are in America. They snap their fingers at them. You are helpless—”
It was true. Well then?
He eyed me, humorously. “It depends on what you want out of them. I take it they can’t give you much of anything. You didn’t marry one of them, as I did, to ameliorate your situation in society. Putting aside the charm of the son and daughter, why did we do it? I did it as a bit of business. For me it was ‘une affaire—’ how it turned out is neither here nor there. I can look after myself. For you it is different, I repeat you are helpless. They are too many for you.” He chuckled good-naturedly.
Again it was true; I assented meekly.
“Ah ha—Voilà, you see it. Then, my advice is—‘Filez’—get out.”
“And Geneviève?”
“Bribe them.”
“You think—?”