Maximilien was of the
group. Emilie, who lent an attentive ear to her neighbors'
conversation, overheard one of those dialogues into which a young
woman so easily falls with a young man who has the grace and style of
Maximilien Longueville. The lady talking to the young banker was a
Neapolitan duchess, whose eyes shot lightning flashes, and whose skin
had the sheen of satin. The intimate terms on which Longueville
affected to be with her stung Mademoiselle de Fontaine all the more
because she had just given her lover back twenty times as much
tenderness as she had ever felt for him before.
"Yes, monsieur, in my country true love can make every kind of
sacrifice," the Duchess was saying, in a simper.
"You have more passion than Frenchwomen," said Maximilien, whose
burning gaze fell on Emilie. "They are all vanity."
"Monsieur," Emilie eagerly interposed, "is it not very wrong to
calumniate your own country? Devotion is to be found in every nation."
"Do you imagine, mademoiselle," retorted the Italian, with a sardonic
smile, "that a Parisian would be capable of following her lover all
over the world?"
"Oh, madame, let us understand each other. She would follow him to a
desert and live in a tent but not to sit in a shop."
A disdainful gesture completed her meaning. Thus, under the influence
of her disastrous education, Emile for the second time killed her
budding happiness, and destroyed its prospects of life.
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