“You foolish woman! will you not have the servants, the gardeners, and the concierge to protect you?”

“That makes no difference.  I am afraid of insane people.  When the marquis began to rave and howl this evening, I felt as if I should go mad myself.”

Blanche shrugged her shoulders.

“What do you wish, then?” she asked, in a still more sarcastic manner.

“I thought—­I wondered—­if you would not take me with you.”

“To Paris!  You are crazy, I do believe.  What would you do there?”

“Blanche, I entreat you, I beseech you, to do so!”

“Impossible, aunt; impossible!”

Aunt Medea seemed to be in despair.

“And what if I should tell you that I cannot remain here—­that I dare not—­that I should die!”

A flush of impatience dyed the cheek of Mme. Blanche.

“You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, rudely.

And with a gesture that increased the harshness of her words, she added: 

“If Courtornieu displeases you so much, there is nothing to prevent you from seeking a home more to your taste.  You are free and of age.”

Aunt Medea turned very pale, and she bit her lips until the blood came.

“That is to say,” she said, at last, “you permit me to take my choice between dying of fear at Courtornieu and ending my days in a hospital.  Thanks, my niece, thanks.  That is like you.  I expected nothing less of you.  Thanks!”

She raised her head, and a dangerous light gleamed in her eyes.  There was the hiss of a serpent in the voice in which she continued: 

“Very well! this decides me.  I entreated you, and you brutally refused to heed my prayer, now I command and I say:  ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris—­and I shall go.  Ah! it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak in this way.  I have endured in silence for a long time, but I have rebelled at last.  My life in this house has been a hell.  It is true that you have given me shelter—­that you have fed and lodged me; but you have taken my entire life in exchange.  What servant ever endured what I have endured?  Have you ever treated one of your maids as you have treated me, your own flesh and blood?  And I have had no wages; on the contrary, I was expected to be grateful since I lived by your tolerance.  Ah! you have made me pay dearly for the crime of being poor.  How you have insulted me—­humiliated me—­trampled me under foot!”

She paused.

The bitter rancor which had been accumulating for years fairly choked her; but after a moment she resumed, in a tone of intense irony: