“Monsieur de Portenduère is there and wishes to speak to you,” announced Cabirolle.
“Show him in,” replied Zélie.
The twilight darkness prevented Madame Minoret from noticing the sudden pallor of her husband, who shivered as he heard the creak of Savinien’s boots on the floor of the gallery which had once been the doctor’s library. A vague presentiment of evil ran through the despoiler’s veins. Savinien appeared, and remained standing, his hat on his head, his stick in his hand, his arms crossed over his chest, motionless in front of the husband and wife.
“I have come to ask, Monsieur and Madame Minoret, your reasons for so infamously tormenting a young girl who, as the whole town of Nemours is aware, is my future wife; why you have tried to stain her honor; why you desired her death, and why you have exposed her to the insults of such a man as Goupil?—Answer me.”
“How funny you are, Monsieur Savinien,” said Zélie, “to come and ask us to explain a thing which is unaccountable to us! I care no more for Ursule than for the year ’40. Since the death of Uncle Minoret, I have thought no more of her than of my first nightgown! I have not breathed a word about her to Goupil, who is, besides, a rogue to whom I would not even trust the interests of my dog. Well, Minoret, why don’t you answer? Are you going to let yourself be browbeaten by monsieur and accused of infamies that are beneath you? As if a man who has forty-eight thousand francs a year in
