My uncle, Félix Faure, gave her a chair, and asked her to sit down, and then inquired in a kindly way about her husband, a savant, with whom my uncle collaborated sometimes for his book, “The Life of St. Louis.”
Mamma had merely glanced across the room without raising her head, for Madame Guérard did not prefer my sister to me.
“Well, as we have come here on account of this child,” said my godfather, looking at his watch, “we must begin and discuss what is to be done with her.”
I began to tremble, and drew closer to mon petit Dame (as I had always called Madame Guérard from my infancy) and to Mlle. de Brabender. They each took my hand by way of encouraging me.
“Yes,” continued M. Meydieu, with a laugh; “it appears you want to be a nun.”
“Ah, indeed,” said the Duc de Morny to Aunt Rosine.
“Sh!” she retorted, with a laugh. Mamma sighed, and held her wools up close to her eyes to match them.
“You have to be rich, though, to enter a convent,” grunted the Hâvre notary, “and you have not a sou.” I leaned towards Mlle. de Brabender and whispered, “I have the money that papa left.”
The horrid man overheard.
“Your father left some money to get you married,” he said.