“You’ll always be a child to your father; Don’t you understand that just because work and pride and family traditions have protected your youth with their sense of order and discipline, this woman, who’s older than you are, and whose name I’ve not been the first to mention here, is all the more a danger for you? Do you so much as know who she is?” “Don’t talk about her!” cried Maurice. “I will talk about her, though,” said Mr. Roquevillard, in a tone that had become abrupt and imperious. “Am I the head of the family, or am I not? By what right do you tell me to keep still? Are you afraid I am going to use undignified arguments with you? You know that would not be like me.” “Mrs. Frasne is a good woman,” repeated the young man. “Yes, one of those good women who have to play with fire to distract themselves, who are never satisfied unless they monopolise all the men in a drawing-room, even the old ones. One of those virtuous women of to-day, who have read everything except the Gospel, who understand everything except their duty, who excuse everything except virtue, who take advantage of every privilege but that of doing good, which is always open to them. Why are they virtuous? You can’t tell. Neither faith nor shame deters them, and as for honour, that’s a religion for men alone. They are all rebels. In their youth they are content with words. When youth threatens to take wing, believe me, they want realities. This woman here, the young wife of a man already well on in years, ought at least to remember that he houses and feeds her, for he married her without a cent.” “That’s not true. She had a dot of one hundred thousand francs.” “Who told you so?” “She did, herself.” “I hope so. However, my informant is my old friend Clairval, who introduced the Frasnes to us when his successor was installed here, and he does not speak lightly. Between her dread of poverty, or at least of coming down a long way in the world, and of her husband, whose grim face is not very reassuring, I’ll admit, if she still prefers her husband, that’s as much sense as could be expected of her.” Quite trembling with this contemptuous treatment of his idol, Maurice took a step forward. “Enough, father, I beg of you. Don’t accuse her of any baseness. Don’t challenge her courage. I can assure you that you would be wrong. I don’t want to hear her defamed any more, and so I’m going.” “I forbid you to set foot again in Frasne’s offices.” “Take care that I don’t refuse ever to set foot in yours.” This last threat was launched by Maurice from the threshold. “Maurice!” called Mr. Roquevillard in a changed voice, with a tone more of appeal than of command. He followed after the boy hastily: only to find that the vestibule was empty, the young man already half-way down the outer steps.