I was peculiarly mortified at this jesting.  However, paying her back in her own coin, I answered: 

“Yes; I composed one yesterday evening at the chapel window; and if it is a poor thing, cousin, it is your fault.”

“Say, rather, that it is the fault of your education,” she replied, kindling.

And she was never more beautiful than when her natural pride and spirit were roused.

“My own opinion is that I am being very much over-educated,” I answered; “and that if I gave more heed to my natural good sense you would not jeer at me so much.”

“Really, it seems to me that you are indulging in a veritable war of wits with Bernard,” said M. de la Marche, folding his paper carelessly and approaching us.

“I cry quits with her,” I answered, annoyed at this impertinence.  “Let her keep her wit for such as you.”

I had risen to insult him, but he did not seem to notice it; and standing with his back to the fire he bent down towards Edmee and said, in a gentle and almost affectionate voice: 

“What is the matter with him?” as if he were inquiring after the health of her little dog.

“How should I know?” she replied, in the same tone.

Then she rose and added: 

“My head aches too much to remain here.  Give me your arm and take me up to my room.”

She went out, leaning upon his arm.  I was left there stupefied.

I remained in the drawing-room, resolved to insult him as soon as he should return.  But the abbe now entered, and soon afterward my Uncle Hubert.  They began to talk on subjects which were quite strange to me (the subjects of their conversation were nearly always so).  I did not know what to do to obtain revenge.  I dared not betray myself in my uncle’s presence.  I was sensible to the respect I owed to him and to his hospitality.  Never had I done such violence to myself at Roche-Mauprat.  Yet, in spite of all efforts, my anger showed itself.  I almost died at being obliged to wait for revenge.  Several times the chevalier noticed the change in my features and asked in a kind tone if I were ill.  M. de la Marche seemed neither to observe nor to guess anything.  The abbe alone examined me attentively.  More than once I caught his blue eyes anxiously fixed on me, those eyes in which natural penetration was always veiled by habitual shyness.  The abbe did not like me.  I could easily see that his kindly, cheerful manners grew cold in spite of himself as soon as he spoke to me; and I noticed, too, that his face would invariably assume a sad expression at my approach.