“No, you ought not to laugh at what is a great pleasure to your mother. If some of her friends are a little eccentric, it is not for you to remark upon it.”
He rose, began to walk excitedly up and down the room and then, gradually mastering himself, came and sat opposite Gilberte again and said:
“You are right, madame. Besides, among all those people whom I cannot help criticizing, I have never heard you speak any but sensible, judicious, intelligent words, admirable for their kindness and wisdom. You always answer their most ridiculous questions as though they had asked you about the most interesting things in life. One word from you brings order and lucidity into the most absurd conversations.”
It was no longer the same voice. Usually so hard and dictatorial, it had become humble and grave. And his face, which was generally severe, bore an expression of infinite gentleness. One was no longer conscious of acrimony, constraint or distrust, but of the frank unreserve of a pent-up nature and of subdued melancholy.
Which of the two was the real Guillaume? Gilberte did not even ask herself the question, was only too happy to believe at once in the more attractive of the two images presented to her. And so she smiled upon this second Guillaume and said:
“Then ... those gentlemen ...?”
“Your two protégés shall resume the places which they fill so well. I insist, however, on a temporary exclusion as a punishment; for it is a punishment to Le Hourteulx and Beaufrelant. After that, if they are very good....”
“And you will be pleasant to them?”
“To them and to the others, at least as pleasant as I can.”
“Is it so very difficult?”