Like a provincial, as Granet described him so often, he entered
there into a new world.
Uncle Kayser frequently called to see his niece. Severe in taste, he
cast long, disdainful looks at the tapestries and the artistic trifles
that adorned the house. In his opinion, it was rubbish and the luxury of
a decaying age. He never changed his tune, always riding the hobby-horse
of an aesthetic moralist.
"It lacks severity, all this furnishing of yours," was his constantly
repeated criticism to Marianne, as he sat smoking his pipe on a divan,
as was his custom in his own, wretched studio.
Then, in an abrupt way, with his eye wandering over the ceiling as if he
were following the flight of a chimera, he would say:
"Why! your minister must do a great deal, if all this comes from the
ministry!"
Marianne interrupted him. It was no business of his to mix himself up
with matters that did not concern him. Above all, he must hold his
tongue. Did he forget that Vaudrey was married? The least indiscretion--
"Oh! don't alarm yourself," the painter broke in, "I am as dumb as a
carp, the more so since your escapade is not very praiseworthy!--For you
have, in fact, deserted the domestic hearth--yes, you have deserted the
hearth.--It is pretty here, a little like a courtesan's, perhaps, but
pretty, all the same.--But you must acknowledge that it is a case of
interloping. It is not the genuine home with its dignity, its virtuous
severity, its--What time does your minister come? I would like to speak
to him--"
"To preach morality to him?" asked Marianne, glancing at her uncle with
an ironical expression.
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