There
is something stronger than one's feelings even, and that is Nature!"
"But such a mean creature!" cried the proud Hortense. "He cares for
that woman because she feeds him.--And has she paid his debts, do you
suppose?--Good Heaven! I think of that man's position day and night!
He is the father of my child, and he is degrading himself."
"But look at your mother, my dear," said Celestine.
Celestine was one of those women who, when you have given them reasons
enough to convince a Breton peasant, still go back for the hundredth
time to their original argument. The character of her face, somewhat
flat, dull, and common, her light-brown hair in stiff, neat bands, her
very complexion spoke of a sensible woman, devoid of charm, but also
devoid of weakness.
"The Baroness would willingly go to join her husband in his disgrace,
to comfort him and hide him in her heart from every eye," Celestine
went on. "Why, she has a room made ready upstairs for Monsieur Hulot,
as if she expected to find him and bring him home from one day to the
next."
"Oh yes, my mother is sublime!" replied Hortense. "She has been so
every minute of every day for six-and-twenty years; but I am not like
her, it is not my nature.--How can I help it? I am angry with myself
sometimes; but you do not know, Celestine, what it would be to make
terms with infamy."
"There is my father!" said Celestine placidly. "He has certainly
started on the road that ruined yours.
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