"I!" cried she. "I love luxury as I love the arts, as I love a picture
by Raphael, a fine horse, a beautiful day, or the Bay of Naples.
Emilio," she went on, "have I ever complained here during our days of
privation."
"You would not have been yourself if you had," replied the old man
gravely.
"After all, is it not in the nature of plain folks to aspire to
grandeur?" she asked, with a mischievous glance at Rodolphe and at her
husband. "Were my feet made for fatigue?" she added, putting out two
pretty little feet. "My hands"--and she held one out to Rodolphe--
"were those hands made to work?--Leave us," she said to her husband;
"I want to speak to him."
The old man went into the drawing-room with sublime good faith; he was
sure of his wife.
"I will not have you come with us to Geneva," she said to Rodolphe.
"It is a gossiping town. Though I am far above the nonsense the world
talks, I do not choose to be calumniated, not for my own sake, but for
his. I make it my pride to be the glory of that old man, who is, after
all, my only protector. We are leaving; stay here a few days. When you
come on to Geneva, call first on my husband, and let him introduce you
to me. Let us hide our great and unchangeable affection from the eyes
of the world. I love you; you know it; but this is how I will prove it
to you--you shall never discern in my conduct anything whatever that
may arouse your jealousy.
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