"All the precautions you are taking, madame, would seem full of
promise to a----"
"To a lover," said she, interrupting him.
"The word is too feeble," said he, placing his right hand on his
heart, and rolling his eyes in a way which almost always makes a woman
laugh when she, in cold blood, sees such a look. "A lover! A lover?
Say a man bewitched----"
"Listen, Monsieur Crevel," said the Baroness, too anxious to be able
to laugh, "you are fifty--ten years younger than Monsieur Hulot, I
know; but at my age a woman's follies ought to be justified by beauty,
youth, fame, superior merit--some one of the splendid qualities which
can dazzle us to the point of making us forget all else--even at our
age. Though you may have fifty thousand francs a year, your age
counterbalances your fortune; thus you have nothing whatever of what a
woman looks for----"
"But love!" said the officer, rising and coming forward. "Such love
as----"
"No, monsieur, such obstinacy!" said the Baroness, interrupting him to
put an end to his absurdity.
"Yes, obstinacy," said he, "and love; but something stronger still--a
claim----"
"A claim!" cried Madame Hulot, rising sublime with scorn, defiance,
and indignation. "But," she went on, "this will bring us to no issues;
I did not ask you to come here to discuss the matter which led to your
banishment in spite of the connection between our families----"
"I had fancied so."
"What! still?" cried she.
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