“Why not?” asked M. Simon.
“Because a man whose opinions are the result of conviction can never be bought. He fights for his flag, and is not much concerned about anything else.”
“Convictions!—flag!—disinterestedness, indeed!” retorted M. Simon, with a gesture of supreme contempt.
It was in vain to say that most of us had carefully observed you, and were not mistaken as to your character. We were nearly all of the clerk’s opinion. For once in his life, the fellow had a correct notion. We then separated without coming to any decision, but each one promised to think of some means of bringing you to reason, as we expressed it. I dwelt on the subject the whole evening, and was still thinking of it the next day when I took my place among the family at the dinner-table.
Aline was at that time greatly interested in the soirée to which you were afterwards invited, and the preliminaries were discussed at table. To my great astonishment, she proposed to place your name on the list of invitations. This proposition made me angry, and I flatly declared it absurd. I was sure my father would make a similar reply. I had no idea he would open the doors of his salon to you, for I knew there was no similarity of opinion between you. The result was precisely contrary to my expectations. Was my father desirous of gratifying Aline? Or did he wish to seize an opportunity of showing how little value he attached to my opinion? I know not. But he allowed me to finish what I had to say, and then said, in a dry tone:
“Aline, send M. Barnier an invitation. It is my wish.”
I was confounded. In my fury, I inwardly swore to be revenged. The means of intimidating you, which the members of the club had not been able to find without compromising themselves, I thought I had discovered myself the night before. I communicated my plan to two of my friends whose names I will not give. They declared it excellent, and promised to second me.
What took place you know, but I will give you some details impossible for you to have ascertained. I did not attend the soirée, but one of my accomplices was there to keep me informed of your movements. When you were ready to leave, he came to my room to notify me. It took only a moment to disguise ourselves. We went out by a private door, and dogged your steps. Ah! my dear friend, what infamous behavior! What had you done to me that I should thus dare violate in your person the laws of hospitality which even savages respect?
At this revelation, I turned pale. M. Louis Beauvais perceived it.
“Is not such an act unpardonable, madame?” said he. “And do you not look upon me as worthy only of your contempt and hatred?”