ight in giving evidence against his
father, and that one ought invariably to tell the truth, no matter what
might happen. What a terrible public prosecutor she would make, eh?"

Thereupon Marie, exasperated by Pierre's smile, which seemingly indicated
that he also thought her in the wrong, flew into quite a passion: "You
are cruel, Guillaume!" she cried; "I won't be laughed at like this."

"But you are losing your senses, my dear," exclaimed Francois, while
Thomas and Antoine again grew merry. "We were only urging a question of
humanity, father and I, for we respect and love justice as much as you
do."

"There's no question of humanity, but simply one of justice. What is just
and right is just and right, and you cannot alter it."

Then, as Guillaume made a further attempt to state his views and win her
over to them, she rose trembling, in such a passion that she could
scarcely stammer: "No, no, you are all too cruel, you only want to grieve
me. I prefer to go up into my own room."

At this Mere-Grand vainly sought to restrain her. "My child, my child!"
said she, "reflect a moment; this is very wrong, you will deeply regret
it."

"No, no; you are not just, and I suffer too much."

Then she wildly rushed upstairs to her room overhead.

Consternation followed. Scenes of a similar character had occasionally
occurred before, but there had never been so serious a one. Guillaume
immediately admitted that he had done wrong in laughing at her, for she
could not bear irony. Then he told Pierre that in her childhood and youth
she had been subject to terrible attacks of passion whenever she
witnessed or heard of any act of injustice. As she herself explained,
these attacks would come upon her with irresistible force, transporting
her to such a point that she would sometimes fall upon the floor and
rave. Even nowadays she proved quarrelsome and obstinate whenever certain
subjects were touched upon. And she afterwards blushed for it all, fully
conscious that others must think her unbearable.

Indeed, a quarter of an hour later, she came downstairs again of her own
accord, and bravely acknowledged her fault. "Wasn't it ridiculous of me?"
she said. "To think I accuse others of being unkind when I behave like
that! Monsieur l'Abbe must have a very bad opinion of me." Then, after
kissing Mere-Grand, she added: "You'll forgive me, won't you? Oh!
Francois may laugh now, and so may Thomas and Antoine. They are quite
right, our dif