These temperaments, which passion has never exhausted, have at command a great supply of the vital fluid. This phenomenon of extreme brightness in her eye under the influence of rage was all the more confirmed in Mademoiselle Rogron because formerly, in her shop, she had had occasion to try the power of her gaze by opening her eyes enormously wide, always to fill her dependants with salutary terror. “I will teach you to give me the lie,” she went on; “you, who deserve to be sent away from table to feed by yourself in the kitchen.”
“What is the matter with you both?” cried Rogron. “You are as cross as two sticks this morning.”
“Oh, my lady knows what I mean! I am giving her time to make up her mind before speaking to you about it, for I am much kinder to her than she deserves.”
Pierrette looked through the window out on to the Square, so as not to meet her cousin’s eyes, which frightened her.
“She pays no more heed than if I were talking to this sugar-basin! And she has sharp ears too; she can speak from the top of the house to answer someone below. … She is that perverse! Your ward is aggravating beyond words, and you need look for nothing good from her; do you hear me, Rogron?”
“What has she done that is so wicked?” asked her brother.
“At her age too! It is beginning young!” cried the old maid in a fury.
Pierrette rose to clear away, just to keep herself in countenance; she did not know which way to look. Though such language was nothing new to her, she never could get used to it. Her cousin’s rage made her feel as though she had committed some crime. She wondered what her rage would be if she knew of Brigaut’s escapade. Perhaps they would keep Brigaut away. All the thousand ideas of a slave crowded on her at once, thoughts swift and deep, and she resolved to resist by absolute silence as to an incident in which her conscience could see no evil.
She had to endure words so cruel, so harsh, insinuations so insulting, that on her return to the kitchen she was seized with cramp in the stomach and a violent attack of sickness. She dared not complain; she was not sure of getting any care. She turned pale and faint, said that she felt ill, and went up to bed, clinging to the banisters at every step, and believing that her last hour had come. “Poor Brigaut!” thought she.
“She is ill,” said Rogron.
“She ill! It is all megrims,” said Sylvie, loud enough to be overheard, “She was not ill this morning, I can tell you!”
This last shot was too much for Pierrette, who crept to bed in tears, praying to God to remove her from this world.
For a month past Rogron had no longer carried the Constitutionnel to Gouraud; the Colonel obsequiously came to fetch the newspaper, to make talk, and take Rogron out when the weather was fine. Sylvie, sure of seeing the Colonel, and being able to question him, dressed herself coquettishly. The old maid thought she achieved this by putting on a green gown, a little yellow cashmere shawl bordered with red, and a white bonnet with meagre gray feathers. At the hour when the Colonel was due, she settled herself in the drawing-room with her brother, making him keep on his dressing-gown and slippers.
“It is a fine morning. Colonel,” said Rogron, hearing Gouraud’s heavy step; “but I am not dressed, my sister perhaps wanted to go out, she left me to mind the house; wait for me.”
Rogron went off, leaving Sylvie with the Colonel.
“Where are you going? you are dressed like a goddess,” observed Gouraud, seeing a certain solemnity of expression on the old maid’s battered face.
“Yes, I was going out; but as the child is not well, I must stay at home.”
“What is the matter with her?”
“I do not know; she asked to go to bed.”
Gouraud’s cautiousness, not to say his distrust, was constantly on the alert as a result of his collusion with Vinet. The lawyer evidently had the best of it. He edited the paper, he ruled it as a master, and applied the profits to the editing; whereas the Colonel, the responsible stalking-horse, got little enough. Who was to be the député? Vinet. Who the great electioneer? Vinet. Who was always consulted? Vinet.
Then he knew, at least as well as Vinet, the extent and depth of the passion consuming Rogron for the fair Bathilde de Chargeboeuf. This passion was becoming a mania, as all the lowest passions of men do. Bathilde’s voice made the old bachelor thrill. Rogron, thinking only of his desire, concealed it; he dared not hope for such a match. The Colonel, to sound him, had told Rogron that he was about to propose for Bathilde’s hand; Rogron had turned pale at the mere thought of such a formidable rival; he had become cold to Gouraud, almost hostile. Thus Vinet in every way ruled the roast, while he, the Colonel, was tied to the house only by the doubtful bond of a love which, on his part, was but feigned, and on Sylvie’s as yet unconfessed. When the lawyer had divulged the priest’s manoeuvre and advised him to throw over Sylvie and pay his addresses to Pierrette, Vinet had humored his inclinations; still, as the Colonel analyzed the true purport of this suggestion, and examined the ground on which he stood, he fancied he could discern in his ally some hope of making mischief between him and Sylvie, and taking advantage of the old maid’s fears to make the whole of Rogron’s fortune fall into Mademoiselle de Chargeboeuf’s hands.
Hence, when Rogron left him alone with Sylvie, the Colonel’s acumen seized on the slight indications which betrayed some uneasiness in Sylvie. He saw that she had planned to be under arms and alone with him for
