“So!” she said, more grimly than ever, “and how is it you can get married without your mother’s consent, if you please?”
“We were married in England, Madame,” I said politely; “but now we want to get married in France as well, and we are come to ask your consent.”
“Ah!” she said sharply; “you are not really married then. And what if I refuse my consent? I do not know you, young man. How do I know if you are a fit husband for my precious little cabbage? Are you rich?”
“No.”
“Are you a Catholic?”
“No.”
“Not rich! Not a Catholic! And this man expects me to let him marry my little chicken, I who am so good with the church and can afford to give her a handsome dot. What is your business?”
“I am a writer.”
“Quel toupet! Just the same as her worthless father, only he was worse—a poet. No, young man. I think I would prefer a different kind of husband for my sweet lamb.”
“I won’t marry any one else, Mémé.”