I saw the calmness of her manner, and her air of gentle expectancy somewhat disconcerted the bishop, who perhaps found women disconcerting creatures.
“Madame, my friend,” began the bishop, following the advice of Horatius Flaccus, and plunging into the middle of things, “I have come upon a painful errand. Reproof is always painful to me.”
“Yes, your Grace.”
As Francezka said this, there was a gleam in her eyes like laughter. And Père Benart took out his handkerchief and coughed violently.
“Reproof, I say, is painful to me,” repeated the bishop blandly, “but I should be a renegade to my duty, if I spared you, my child, in order to spare myself. First, I must complain of the actual encouragement you give to vice by permitting that niece of Peter Embden’s to remain in his house, which is your property.”
“I do it, your Grace,” replied Francezka, sweetly, 326 and with a glance at Father Benart, “by the express advice of my director.”
And then, with folded hands, she sat demurely looking down, and leaving Father Benart to shoulder the burden alone. The good bishop saw that he had two recalcitrants to deal with instead of one; so, like other weak, well-meaning men, he resorted to bluster when reason did not suggest itself to him.
“It is my opinion,” he said, raising his voice, “that Lisa Embden should be sent out of this parish—sent to some city, where her past is not known, and where she can give no scandal.”
Francezka turned sweetly to her accomplice, and said:
“You hear that, Father Benart? The bishop looks to you to enforce this.”