And he cursed as he read:
“The damned scoundrels! And it’s not true; it didn’t happen like that. . . .”
“But what is it they say?” Constance demanded, furiously.
Paul took her by the arm and led her into the little boudoir, where their father’s portrait hung:
“Be quiet, Constance. Please, please don’t read it! What good will it do you; all that dirty language, all that vulgarity? It’s filthy, it’s filthy!”
“And is there nothing we can do?”
“No, no, for God’s sake, no!” Paul begged, as though preferring to hush up everything. “Every one will have forgotten it in ten days’ time.”
“Is there nothing we can do?”
“What do you want to do?” Paul asked, changing his tone, harshly. “Surely you wouldn’t sue the cad for libel?”
“No, no!” she said, startled and terrified.
“Well, what then? Keep quiet, don’t read it, don’t upset yourself about it. . . .”
But Van der Welcke came up to them. He was purple, there was no restraining him:
“I’m going to the fellow. . . .”
“For God’s sake, Van der Welcke!”
Uncle Ruyvenaer joined them:
“What are you doing in here? Oh, yes, that rag! It’s disgraceful, it’s disgraceful!”
“I want to read it!” cried Constance.
“No!” they all three exclaimed. “Don’t read it!”
