“Is it a secret?”
“It was Achilles,” she replied. “Do you not remember that nothing but Achilles’ spear healed the wound that itself had made?”
As soon as they were gone, Mme. Chevreuse turned to her son. “Need I say how sorry I am?” she exclaimed.
Tears were in her eyes. She was touched to the heart that, though he must have been deeply mortified, he should still not have failed for a moment to treat her with even more than ordinary courtesy and affection, as if to show their visitors that he did not dream of reproving her.
“I knew that you felt worse about it than I did, dear mother,” he said, taking her hand. “And this will remind us both that it is not enough to be cautious in the expression of our thoughts. We must allow no uncharitable feeling to remain in our hearts.”
“‘Murder will out,’” he added more lightly, seeing her moved. “And, after all, isn’t Mr. Schöninger a fine fellow?”
Madame made no direct reply. She could not yet be enthusiastic about the Jew. “I think we should have supper,” she said, and went down to look after Jane.
“O madame! did you see the look that man gave you?” cried the girl.
“No matter about that,” the lady said calmly. “It was unfortunate that I should not have known he was coming. You must be careful to give some sign when visitors are coming in, and not introduce them in that noiseless way.”
Madame held, with the Duke of Wellington, that it is not wise to accuse one’s self to a servant. The humility, instead of edifying, only provokes to insubordination.