“How happy every one looks here,” said
Mme. Darbois.
“Don’t believe it, my dear aunt; we are
standing on a volcano.”
“Ah! the cares of the fete weigh upon you.
It always seems as if everything were going wrong
at the last moment.”
She laughed, proud of her penetrations. Genevieve
tugged at Maurice’s vest as he was about to
set the dear lady right.
“Ah! well, I leave you to dress. This evening,
uncle, I want to have a chat with you as I have something
serious to say to you.”
The philosopher and his wife looked at each other
understandingly.
“Very well, my boy, I shall be entirely at your
disposal for as long as you like, for I can guess....”
And he looked at Genevieve. Maurice despaired
of ever making him understand.
Everyone greeted the philosopher with delight when
he appeared in the ante-chamber where the guests were
assembled before dinner. The Duke came to present
his greetings to Mme. Darbois and stayed talking
to her for some time. He saw that she liked him,
but foresaw at the same time that it would be very
painful for the good woman to have to accept another
son-in-law. During dinner the Duchess steered
the conversation towards philosophy, wishing to please
Francois, who was placed on her right—art
and science being to her the highest titles of nobility.
“Ah! I am no philosopher,” protested
the Marquis de Montagnac. “I accept old
age only as a chastisement, and not having committed
any criminal act, I revolt against the injustice of
it.”
And Louis de Marset, bending towards his neighbour,
who had had a great reputation for beauty before age
and illness had pulled her down, remarked, “One
cannot be and have been, is not that true, Madame?”
“You are mistaken, my dear sir. There are
some poor people who are born fools and never change.”
A smile of delight appeared on every face.
The Duke found himself in an argument with Lord Glerey,
a phlegmatic Englishman, whose marital misfortunes
had made both London and Paris laugh.
“You seem,” said the Duke, “to confuse
indifference with philosophy.”
“I do not confuse them, my dear sir. My
apparent indifference is simply scorn for the sarcasms,
the cruelty of the people of society who are always
ready to rejoice when anyone attacks the honour or
love of another.”
The Duke murmured slowly, “Certainly what they
call ‘the world’ deserves scorn.
And all the same, taken separately, every individual
of this collectivity is a man or woman like any other,
a suffering being, who laughs just the same, like
an eternal Figaro, for fear of being compelled to
weep.”
Count Albert was talking to an old sceptic.
“But,” the Countess de Morgueil addressed
him suddenly, “What would you do, if on the
eve of attaining the longed-for happiness, you found
yourself suddenly confronted by an insurmountable obstacle.”
