"
At nine the next morning, the Baron, awaiting his daughter, whom he
had sent for, was pacing the large, deserted drawing-room, trying to
find arguments by which to conquer the most difficult form of
obstinacy there is to deal with--that of a young wife, offended and
implacable, as blameless youth ever is, in its ignorance of the
disgraceful compromises of the world, of its passions and interests.
"Here I am, papa," said Hortense in a tremulous voice, and looking
pale from her miseries.
Hulot, sitting down, took his daughter round the waist, and drew her
down to sit on his knee.
"Well, my child," said he, kissing her forehead, "so there are
troubles at home, and you have been hasty and headstrong? That is not
like a well-bred child. My Hortense ought not to have taken such a
decisive step as that of leaving her house and deserting her husband
on her own account, and without consulting her parents. If my darling
girl had come to see her kind and admirable mother, she would not have
given me this cruel pain I feel!--You do not know the world; it is
malignantly spiteful. People will perhaps say that your husband sent
you back to your parents. Children brought up as you were, on your
mother's lap, remain artless; maidenly passion like yours for
Wenceslas, unfortunately, makes no allowances; it acts on every
impulse.
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