And she laughs, a harsh unpleasant laugh, that Balzac and Georges Sand have taught her, and to which is coupled a natural capability of catching at the under currents of life.
“I never was a hypocrite, Gabrielle and I hate falsehoods as much as you do,” Zai answers rather hotly.
“Then why do you pretend that it’s Baby and not you that will become Lady Delaval by-and-by, perhaps.”
Zai faces her with a bright flush on her cheek, and a flash in her soft grey eyes.
“I Lady Delaval! Gabrielle, you must be mad to hint such a thing. Am I a child or a doll to be handed over to a man I would rather die than marry—if he were one of the Royalties and three times better looking than he is! Lord Delaval is an insipid dandy, with a weak face and—and just the opposite of what I admire!”
“Insipid, weak! Your ideas of him are just prejudice, Zai. You have heard your oracle run him down, and have taken in everything as if it was gospel. I am a bit of a physiognomist and I dare be sworn Lord Delaval never made up his mind to arrive at anything or anybody and failed!”
“He will fail ignominiously if he ever does me the honour of thinking of me as Lady Delaval! Gabrielle you know I shall never marry any one if I don’t marry Carl!”
Gabrielle shrugs her grand shoulders again, while a shade of contempt passes over her mouth as she looks at her companion. Zai looks so fragile and weak—so unfit for any contest of life, a piece of rustic waxwork, in fact, to be carefully handled. She grows quite white as she glances, thinking how easily Lady Beranger will arrange the match if Lord Delaval is willing—Lord Delaval, whom she loves so desperately that she would rather shoot him dead on the spot than let any other woman call him husband.
Insipid! Weak! the words rail her as they recur to her mind, since it is Lord Delaval’s very force of character that is his greatest charm in her eyes, for she is of a nature to adore daring, even if unscrupulous and exercised in dishonourable cause. It is Delaval’s intense masculinity that has fascinated her, for before she came in contact with him, she had never met a man of an equal amount of vigour, combined with so much personal beauty.—Gabrielle Beranger is one of those girls that Mephistopheles calls of super-sensuous refinement. And weakness of character has something repulsive in it for her.
Her senses are too susceptible, and she has a habit of filtering her emotions through the medium of an imagination which is rather dangerously material.