Perlute, in the Berrichon dictionary, signifies troubled, excited, upset, and applied perfectly to Claire’s condition.  Her rapid walk in the cold country air, the effort she had made in order to do what she was doing, imparted an unwonted expression to her face, which was much less reserved than usual.  Without the slightest encouragement on his part, she kissed him and seated herself in front of the fire, where old stumps, surrounded by dry moss and pine needles picked up in the paths, were smouldering with occasional outbursts of life and the hissing of sap.  She did not even take time to shake off the frost that stood in beads on her veil, but began to speak at once, faithful to her resolution to state the object of her visit immediately upon entering the room, before she allowed herself to be intimidated by the atmosphere of fear and respect which encompassed the grandfather and made of him a sort of awe-inspiring deity.

She required all her courage not to become confused, not to interrupt her narrative before that piercing gaze which transfixed her, enlivened from her first words by a malicious joy, before that savage mouth whose corners seemed tightly closed by premeditated reticence, obstinacy, a denial of any sort of sensibility.  She went on to the end in one speech, respectful without humility, concealing her emotion, steadying her voice by the consciousness of the truth of her story.  Really, seeing them thus face to face, he cold and calm, stretched out in his armchair, with his hands in the pockets of his gray swansdown waistcoat, she carefully choosing her words, as if each of them might condemn or absolve her, you would never have said that it was a child before her grandfather, but an accused person before an examining magistrate.

His thoughts were entirely engrossed by the joy, the pride of his triumph.  So they were conquered at last, those proud upstarts of Fromonts!  So they needed old Gardinois at last, did they?  Vanity, his dominating passion, overflowed in his whole manner, do what he would.  When she had finished, he took the floor in his turn, began naturally enough with “I was sure of it—­I always said so—­I knew we should see what it would all come to”—­and continued in the same vulgar, insulting tone, ending with the declaration that, in view of his principles, which were well known in the family, he would not lend a sou.

Then Claire spoke of her child, of her husband’s name, which was also her father’s, and which would be dishonored by the failure.  The old man was as cold, as implacable as ever, and took advantage of her humiliation to humiliate her still more; for he belonged to the race of worthy rustics who, when their enemy is down, never leave him without leaving on his face the marks of the nails in their sabots.

“All I can say to you, little one, is that Savigny is open to you.  Let your husband come here.  I happen to need a secretary.  Very well, Georges can do my writing for twelve hundred francs a year and board for the whole family.  Offer him that from me, and come.”