Father Benart said not a word, but raising his eyes to the ceiling, seemed to be absorbed either in prayer or in uncomplimentary speculation about his brother. The bishop, who was not quite a fool, saw that he had not gained his point. He then charged again, but this time against another position.
“We will speak later of this affair of Lisa. To come now to something more nearly concerning yourself. While your loyal devotion to your husband, and your constant expectation of his return, do your heart infinite honor, Madame, it is not equally flattering to your head. As Swift, an English writer says, reason goes to cuffs with imagination, and fancy gets astride of judgment. For, distressing as it is to me to say it, I must tell you that Monsieur Gaston Cheverny will never return.”
Francezka grew a little pale at these words, but rallied after a moment, speaking courteously.
“Such is your Grace’s opinion. But you can not expect Gaston Cheverny’s wife to be the first to give up hoping for him.”
“By no means. But—Madame Cheverny—you are a widow—and you should conduct yourself as such. You should put on mourning, and place the affairs of your husband before the courts, that they may be settled. In short—pardon the form in which I put it—but you are a widow and should conduct yourself as such.”
“In that case, I should be at liberty to marry again,” coolly remarked Francezka. “Would your Grace recommend me to that?”
The bishop fairly jumped from his chair.
“Great God! No, Madame! It would give frightful scandal!”
“But, Monseigneur, you say that I am a widow—that I should wear mourning. At least be consistent.”