“Mme de Lorcy, my godmother, would do better to meddle with what concerns her. That woman is incorrigible.”
“Of what would you have her correct herself?”
“Simply of her mania for making my happiness after her own fashion. I read in your eyes that Camille has returned to Paris. What is his object?”
“I know nothing about it. How should I know? I only presume—that is, I suppose——”
“You do not suppose—you know.”
“Not at all. At the same time, since hypothesis is the road which leads to science, a road we savants travel every day, I—”
“You know very well,” she again interposed, “that I promised him nothing.”
“Strictly speaking, I admit; but you requested me to tell him that you found him too young. He has laboured conscientiously since then to correct that fault.” Then playfully pinching her cheeks, he added: “You are a great girl for objections. Soon you will be twenty-five years old, and you have refused five eligible offers. Have you taken a vow to remain unmarried?”
“Ah! you have no mercy,” she cried. “What! you cannot even spare me on the Albula! You know that, of all subjects of conversation, I have most antipathy for this.”
“Come, come; you are slandering me now, my child. I spoke to you of Camille as I might have spoken of the King of Prussia; and you rose in arms at once, taking it wholly to yourself.”