“This is all very well,” I said, making
a strenuous effort to preserve that gravity and severity
which ran risk of being shaken by this whimsical candour,
“but it does not alter that wretched business
of the presents. Pack them up, Ginevra, like
a good, honest girl, and send them back.”
“Indeed, I won’t,” said she, stoutly.
“Then you are deceiving M. Isidore. It
stands to reason that by accepting his presents you
give him to understand he will one day receive an
equivalent, in your regard...”
“But he won’t,” she interrupted:
“he has his equivalent now, in the pleasure
of seeing me wear them—quite enough for
him: he is only bourgeois.”
This phrase, in its senseless arrogance, quite cured
me of the temporary weakness which had made me relax
my tone and aspect. She rattled on:
“My present business is to enjoy youth, and
not to think of fettering myself, by promise or vow,
to this man or that. When first I saw Isidore,
I believed he would help me to enjoy it I believed
he would be content with my being a pretty girl; and
that we should meet and part and flutter about like
two butterflies, and be happy. Lo, and behold!
I find him at times as grave as a judge, and deep-feeling
and thoughtful. Bah! Les penseurs, les hommes
profonds et passionnes ne sont pas a mon gout.
Le Colonel Alfred de Hamal suits me far better.
Va pour les beaux fats et les jolis fripons! Vive
les joies et les plaisirs! A bas les grandes
passions et les severes vertus!”
She looked for an answer to this tirade. I gave
none.
“J’aime mon beau Colonel,” she went
on: “je n’aimerai jamais son rival.
Je ne serai jamais femme de bourgeois, moi!”
I now signified that it was imperatively necessary
my apartment should be relieved of the honour of her
presence: she went away laughing.
DR JOHN.
Madame Beck was a most consistent character; forbearing
with all the world, and tender to no part of it.
Her own children drew her into no deviation from the
even tenor of her stoic calm. She was solicitous
about her family, vigilant for their interests and
physical well-being; but she never seemed to know
the wish to take her little children upon her lap,
to press their rosy lips with her own, to gather them
in a genial embrace, to shower on them softly the
benignant caress, the loving word.
I have watched her sometimes sitting in the garden,
viewing the little bees afar off, as they walked in
a distant alley with Trinette, their bonne;
in her mien spoke care and prudence. I know she
often pondered anxiously what she called “leur
avenir;” but if the youngest, a puny and delicate
but engaging child, chancing to spy her, broke from
its nurse, and toddling down the walk, came all eager
and laughing and panting to clasp her knee, Madame
would just calmly put out one hand, so as to prevent
inconvenient concussion from the child’s sudden
onset: “Prends garde, mon enfant!”
she would say unmoved, patiently permit it to stand
near her a few moments, and then, without smile or
kiss, or endearing syllable, rise and lead it back
to Trinette.
