In the dining-room of a fine house on the Boulevard
Raspail all the Darbois family were gathered together
about the round table, on which a white oil cloth
bordered with gold-medallioned portraits of the line
of French kings served as table cover at family meals.
The Darbois family consisted of Francois Darbois,
professor of philosophy, a scholar of eminence and
distinction; of Madame Darbois, his wife, a charming
gentle little creature, without any pretentions; of
Philippe Renaud, brother of Madame Darbois, an honest
and able business man; of his son, Maurice Renaud,
twenty-two and a painter, a fine youth filled with
confidence because of the success he had just achieved
at the last Salon; of a distant cousin, the family
counsellor, a tyrannical landlord and self-centered
bachelor, Adhemar Meydieux, and the child of whom
he was godfather, and around whom all this particular
little world revolved.
Esperance Darbois, the only daughter of the philosopher,
was fifteen years old. She was long and slim
without being angular. The flower head that crowned
this slender stem was exquisitely fair, with the fairness
of a little child, soft pale-gold, fair. Her face
had, indeed, no strictly sculptural beauty; her long
flax-coloured eyes were not large, her nose had no
special character; only her sensitive and clear-cut
nostrils gave the pretty face its suggestion of ancient
lineage. Her mouth was a little large, and her
full red lips opened on singularly white teeth as
even as almonds; while a low Grecian forehead and
a neck graceful in every curve gave Esperance a total
effect of aristocratic distinction that was beyond
dispute. Her low vibrant voice produced an impression
that was almost physical on those who heard it.
Quite without intention, she introduced into every
word she spoke several inflections which made her
manner of pronounciation peculiarly her own.
Esperance was kneeling on a chair, leaning upon her
arms on the table. Her blue dress, cut like a
blouse, was held in at the waist by a narrow girdle
knotted loosely. Although the child was arguing
vigorously, with intense animation, there was such
grace in her gestures, such charming vibrations in
her voice, that it was impossible to resent her combative
attitude.
“Papa, my dear papa,” she was asserting
to Francois Darbois, “You are saying to-day
just the opposite of what you were saying the other
day to mother at dinner.”
Her father raised his head. Her mother, on the
contrary, dropped hers a little. “Pray
Heaven,” she was saying to herself, “that
Francois does not get angry with her!”
The godfather moved his chair forward; Philippe Renaud
laughed; Maurice looked at his cousin with amazement.
“What are you saying?” asked Francois
Darbois.
Esperance gazed at him tenderly. “You remember
my godfather was dining with us and there had been
a lot of talk; my godfather was against allowing any
liberty to women, and he maintained that children have
no right to choose their own careers, but must, without
reasoning, give way to their parents, who alone are
to decide their fates.”
