never about such things: he thinks everything but sewing and cooking above women’s comprehension, and out of their line.”
“And do you fancy you comprehend the subjects on which you advise me?”
“As far as they concern you, I comprehend them. I know it would be better for you to be loved by your workpeople than to be hated by them, and I am sure that kindness is more likely to win their regard than pride. If you were proud and cold to me and Hortense, should we love you? When you are cold to me, as you are sometimes, can I venture to be affectionate in return?”
“Now, Lina, I’ve had my lesson both in languages and ethics, with a touch on politics; it is your turn. Hortense tells me you were much taken by a little piece of poetry you learned the other day, a piece by poor André Chénier—‘La Jeune Captive,’ do you remember it still?”
“I think so.”
“Repeat it, then. Take your time and mind your accent: especially let us have no English u’s.”
Caroline, beginning in a low, rather tremulous voice, but gaining courage as she proceeded, repeated the sweet verses of Chénier:[1] the last three stanzas she rehearsed well.
- ↑ Caroline had never seen Millevoye’s “Jeune Malade,” otherwise she would have known that there is a better poem in the French language than Chénier’s “Captive;” a poem worthy to have been
