“One is not mistress of one’s dislikes or affections, aunt.  But to reply to your questions, I will say that you may rest assured that none of these gentlemen, nor any of those whom you might name, has the slightest effect upon my state of mind.  I am bored because it probably is my nature to need distractions, and there are none in this deserted place.  It is an involuntary disagreeableness, for which I reproach myself and which I hope will pass away.  Rest assured, that the root of the evil does not lie in my heart.”

Mademoiselle de Corandeuil understood by the cold and rather dry tone in which these words were spoken that her niece wished to keep her secret, if she had one; she could not prevent a gesture of anger as she saw her advances thus repelled, but felt that she was no wiser than when she began the conversation.  She manifested her disappointment by pushing the dog aside with her foot—­the poor thing was perfectly innocent!—­and in a cross tone, which was much more familiar than her former coaxing one, she continued: 

“Very well, since I am wrong, since your husband adores you and you him, since, to sum it all up, your heart is perfectly tranquil and free, your conduct is devoid of common-sense, and I advise you to change it.  I warn you that all this hypochondria, paleness, and languor are caprices which are very disagreeable to others.  There is a Provence proverb which says:  Vaillance de Blacas, prudence de Pontevez, caprice de Corandeuil.  If there was not such a saying, it should be created for you, for you have something incomprehensible enough in your character to make a saint swear.  If anybody should know you, it is I, who brought you up.  I do not wish to reproach you, but you gave me trouble enough; you were a most wayward, capricious, and fantastic creature, a spoiled child—­”

“Aunt,” interrupted Clemence, with heightened color in her pale cheeks, “you have told me of my faults often enough for me to know them, and, if they were not corrected, it was not your fault, for you never spared me scoldings.  If I had not been so unfortunate as to lose my mother when I was a baby, I should not have given you so much trouble.”

Tears came into the young woman’s eyes, but she had enough control over herself to keep them from streaming down her burning cheeks.  Taking a journal from the table, she opened it, in order to conceal her emotion and to put an end to this conversation, which had become painful to her.  Mademoiselle de Corandeuil, on her side, carefully replaced her eye-glasses upon her nose, and, solemnly stretching herself upon her chair, she turned over the leaves of the ‘Gazette de France,’ which she had neglected so long.