René d’Esparvieu’s complexion was blotchy, and having powdered herself in order to appear to advantage at the domestic tribunal, the colour of her face suggested raspberries sprinkled over with sugar. Maurice, being possessed of some taste, could not help realising that she was ugly and rather repulsively so. He was out of tune with her, and when she began to go through all the accusations his father had brought against him, making them out to be blacker than ever, the prodigal turned away his head to conceal his irritation.
“Your Aunt de Saint-Fain,” she went on, “met you in the street in such disgraceful company that she was really thankful that you forbore to greet her.”
“Aunt de Saint-Fain!” Maurice broke out. “I like to hear her talking about scandals! Everyone knows the sort of life she has led, and now the old hypocrite wants to——”
He stopped. He had caught sight of his father, whose face was even more eloquent of sorrow than of anger. Maurice began to feel as though he had committed murder, and could not imagine how he had allowed such words to escape him. He was on the point of bursting into tears, falling on his knees, and imploring his father to forgive him, when his mother, looking up at the ceiling, said with a sigh:
“What offence can I have committed against
