“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 told you that I can’t remain here--that I dare not--that I should die!” Blanche flushed with impatience. “You weary me beyond endurance,” she said, roughly. 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 bit her lips. “That is to say,” she said at last, “that you allow 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 from you. Thanks!” She raised her head, and her once humble eyes gleamed in a threatening fashion. “Very well! this decides me,” she continued. “I entreated you, and you brutally refused my request, so now I command you and I say: ‘I will go!’ Yes, I intend to go with you to Paris--and I shall go. Ah! so it surprises you to hear poor, meek, much-abused Aunt Medea speak like this; but I’ve endured a great deal in silence for a long time, and now I rebel. My life in this house has been like life in hell. It is true you’ve given me shelter--fed and lodged me, but you’ve taken my entire life in exchange. What servant ever endured what I’ve had to endure? 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!”