“After all, you have a right. There! take it. But I beg of you do not be offended by unfortunate expressions.”
“Mme. de Lorcy always knows how to choose the proper word to express her thought,” she responded.
When she had run her eye rapidly over Mme. de Lorcy’s eight closely written pages, she looked at her father and smiled.
“You must own that you found a very useful and a very zealous ally in Mme. de Lorcy; do her this justice, she has worked hard, and you owe her many thanks for having busied herself so actively in ridding you of ‘this worthy man, this good man, this delightful man’; those are her own words, if you remember.”
M. Moriaz exclaimed: “I hope you do not imagine that it was a matter arranged between us. Do you really suspect me of having some dark plot with Mme. de Lorcy! Do you believe me capable of being implicated in an act of perfidy?”
“God forbid! I only accuse you of being too joyous, and of not knowing how to conceal it.”
“Is that a crime?”
“Perhaps it is an indiscretion.”
“I swear to you, my dear child, that I only consider your happiness, and Mme. de Lorcy herself—Since M. Langis no longer thinks of you, what reason could she have—”
“I do not know,” interrupted Antoinette; “but her prejudice would take the place of reason.”