"Yes, doctor"—she was speaking to her neighbour, who listened to her wailings with slightly ironical interest—"yes, doctor, I am not joking; I do wish I were dead. I am sure it would be a great relief to everybody. Think what it must be—to have been in the position I've been in, to have eaten off silver plate with one's own coat of arms, and now to be reduced to charity, to be the sport of servants! No one knows what I suffer in this house; no one ever will know. The proud suffer without complaining, so I say nothing, doctor, but I think all the more."
"Of course, dear lady," said the doctor, whose name was Desmarets. "Don't say any more. Take a good drink. That will calm you."
"Nothing but death will calm me, doctor."
"Very well, madame, I am ready when you are," said the doctor resolutely.
Towards the centre of the table the attention of the company was monopolized by the careless, caustic, and animated braggadocio of a M. de Bévallan, who seemed to be allowed the latitude of a very intimate friend. He is a very tall man, no longer young, of a type closely akin to that of Francis I.
They listened to him as if he were an oracle, and Mlle. Laroque herself showed as much interest and admiration as she seemed capable of feeling for anything in this world. But, as most of his popular witticisms referred to local anecdotes and parish gossip, I could not adequately appreciate the merits of this Armorican lion.
I had reason, however, to appreciate his courtesy; after dinner he offered me a cigar, and showed me the way to the smoking-room, where he did the honours to three or four extremely young men, who evidently thought him a model of good manners and refined wickedness.
"Well, Bévallan," said one of these young fellows, "you've not given up hopes of the priestess of the sun-god?"
"Never!" replied M. de Bévallan. "I would wait ten months—ten years, if necessary—but I will marry her or no one shall!"
"You're a lucky chap! The governess will help you to be patient."