‘This little mignonne is a gem--a beauty of the first water. You must be very careful of her; such pretty little faces would bewitch half mankind. Look, madame! what a ripe luscious tint, what a rich and glowing complexion, like a peach, is it not? It is flesh--actually warm, soft, rosy flesh; it is not _lead_.’ Madame Berthier uttered a cry at this coarse insult, and covered her face with her hands. ‘You should wear gloves, Madame Plomb,’ continued her husband, ‘and then you might cover your face with some prospect of concealing your complexion. But what do I see? You have been dyeing your hands with saffron. Actually trying to gild lead.’ The wretched woman threw down her cat, sprang to her feet and fled out of the room, down the corridor which extended the length of the house, from one tower to the other. She was caught almost instantly in her father’s arms. ‘How now!’ exclaimed the old man. ‘How is this, my little Imogène? In a pet! one of your little naughty tantrums! Naughty Imogène!’ ‘My father!’ cried the unhappy woman, ‘why did you marry me to that man?’ ‘Tut, tut,’ said M. Foulon, disengaging himself from her. ‘You ask me that so often, that I am obliged to formularize my answers and your questions into a sort of catechism. How does it begin? Ah! Where were you married? _Answer_: At S. Sulpice. Who by? _Answer_: By Father Mafitte. What were you asked? _Answer_: Wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband? _Answer_: I will. Now, then, whose doing was it that you were married to Monsieur Berthier? Why, your own, child!’ ‘Father, take me away.’ ‘Imogène, what nonsense! May I offer you my arm to conduct you back to your yellow chamber?’ ‘Father,’ she wrung her hands, ‘he insults me.’ ‘He has his little jokes about your complexion, eh? Bah! you should not be such a baby as to mind his playful banter. He is a boy, gay at heart, and very facetious.’ ‘It is not that,’ moaned the wretched woman; ‘he brings young girls here,--and I his wife have to receive them, and---- Oh, father! take me away, or I shall go raging mad!’ ‘Bah! young men will be young men--not that Berthier is such a youth, either! You must not exact too much. Look at your face in the glass, and then say,--can he find much satisfaction therein? Is it not natural that the butterfly should seek brighter and fairer flowers?’ ‘You have no heart.’ ‘Imogène, I never pretended to possess those gushing sentiments which make fools of men and women. I am a man of reason, not sentiment. I have no passions. You never saw me angry, jealous, loving,--never! I think, I reason, I calculate, I do not feel and sympathize; I am all intelligence, not emotion. Bah! Take things coolly. Say to yourself, What is reasonable? Is it reasonable that Berthier should profess ardent passion for me, who am plain and blue? No, it is preposterous; therefore I acquiesce in what is natural.’ ‘You take his part against me.’