But that was not all. And when Marechal told Savinien that the fair Jeanne flatly refused to become the wife of Cayrol, there was an outburst of joyful exclamations. She refused! By Jove, she was mad! An unlooked-for marriage--for she had not a penny, and had most extravagant notions. She had been brought up as if she were to live always in velvet and silks--to loll in carriages and think only of her pleasure. What reason did she give for refusing him! None. Haughtily and disdainfully she had declared that she did not love “that man,” and that she would not marry him.
When Savinien heard these details his rapture increased. One thing especially charmed him: Jeanne’s saying “that man,” when speaking of Cayrol. A little girl who was called “De Cernay” just as he might call himself “Des Batignolles” if he pleased: the natural and unacknowledged daughter of a Count and of a shady public singer! And she refused Cayrol, calling him “that man.” It was really funny. And what did worthy Cayrol say about it?
When Marechal declared that the banker had not been damped by this discouraging reception, Savinien said it was human nature. The fair Jeanne scorned Cayrol and Cayrol adored her. He had often seen those things happen. He knew the baggages so well! Nobody knew more of women than he did. He had known some more difficult to manage than proud Mademoiselle Jeanne.
An old leaven of hatred had festered in Savinien’s heart against Jeanne since the time when the younger branch of the Desvarennes had reason to fear that the superb heritage was going to the adopted daughter. Savinien had lost the fear, but had kept up the animosity. And everything that could happen to Jeanne of a vexing or painful nature would be witnessed by him with pleasure.
He was about to encourage Marechal to continue his revelations, and had risen and was leaning on the desk. With his face excited and eager, he was preparing his question, when, through the door which led to Madame Desvarennes’s office, a confused murmur of voices was heard. At the same time the door was half opened, held by a woman’s hand, square, with short fingers, a firm-willed and energetic hand. At the same time, the last words exchanged between Madame Desvarennes and the Financial Secretary of the War Office were distinctly audible. Madame Desvarennes was speaking, and her voice sounded clear and plain; a little raised and vibrating. There seemed a shade of anger in its tone.