“I thank you, madam,” says Beatrix, with a toss of the head and a curtsy.
But her mother continued, with very great calmness and dignity—“At least we have not said so, though we might, were it possible for a mother to say such words to her own daughter, your father's daughter.”
“Eh! mon père,” breaks out Beatrix, “was no better than other persons' fathers;” and again she looked towards the colonel.
We all felt a shock as she uttered those two or three French words; her manner was exactly imitated from that of our foreign guest.
“You had not learned to speak French a month ago, Beatrix,” says her mother, sadly, “nor to speak ill of your father.”
Beatrix, no doubt, saw that slip she had made in her flurry, for she blushed crimson: “I have learnt to honour the king,” says she, drawing up, “and 'twere as well that others suspected neither his Majesty nor me.”
“If you respected your mother a little more,” Frank said, “'Trix, you would do yourself no hurt.”
“I am no child,” says she, turning round on him; “we have lived very well these five years without the benefit of your advice or example, and I intend to take neither now. Why does not the head of the house speak?” she went on; “he rules everything here. When his chaplain has done singing the psalms, will his lordship deliver the sermon? I am tired of the psalms.” The prince had used almost the very same words, in regard to Colonel Esmond, that the imprudent girl repeated in her wrath.
“You show yourself a very apt scholar, madam,” says the colonel; and, turning to his mistress, “Did your guest use these words in your ladyship's hearing, or was it to Beatrix in private that he was pleased to impart his opinion regarding my tiresome sermon?”
“Have you seen him alone?” cries my lord, starting up with an oath: “by God, have you seen him alone?”