"We will be careful, Madame the Countess; we will try."
"That's right; for I cannot too often repeat it to you,—this is a principle here, a principle upon which I cannot compromise."
And she added, with an inflection in her voice that was almost caressing:
"Moreover, believe me, when one is not rich, it is better to have no children."
The man, to please his future mistress, said, by way of conclusion:
"Surely, surely. Madame the Countess speaks truly."
But there was hatred within him. The sombre and fierce gleam that passed over his eyes like a flash gave the lie to the forced servility of these last words. The countess did not see this murderous gleam, for she had fixed her eyes instinctively on the person of the woman whom she had just condemned to sterility or infanticide.
The bargain was quickly concluded. She gave her orders, detailed minutely the services that she expected of her new gardeners, and, as she dismissed them with a haughty smile, she said, in a tone that admitted of no reply:
"I think that you have religious sentiments, do you not? Here everybody goes to mass on Sunday, and receives the sacrament at Easter. I insist upon it absolutely."
They went away without speaking to each other, very serious, very sober. The road was dusty and the heat oppressive, and the poor woman walked painfully, dragging her legs after her. As she was stifling a little, she stopped, placed her bag upon the ground, and unlaced her corsets.