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"Now!" says Mademoiselle Hortense, darkening her large eyes again. "You have paid me? Eh, my God, oh yes!"
Mr. Tulkinghorn rubs his head with the key while she entertains herself with a sarcastic laugh.
"You must be rich, my fair friend," he composedly observes, "to throw money about in that way!"
"I AM rich," she returns. "I am very rich in hate. I hate my Lady, of all my heart. You know that."
"Know it? How should I know it?"
"Because you have known it perfectly before you prayed me to give you that information. Because you have known perfectly that I was en-r-r-r-raged!" It appears impossible for mademoiselle to roll the letter "r" sufficiently in this word, notwithstanding that she assists her energetic delivery by clenching both her hands and setting all her teeth.
"Oh! I knew that, did I?" says Mr. Tulkinghorn, examining the wards of the key.
"Yes, without doubt. I am not blind. You have made sure of me because you knew that. You had reason! I det-est her." Mademoiselle folds her arms and throws this last remark at him over one of her shoulders.
"Having said this, have you anything else to say, mademoiselle?"
"I am not yet placed. Place me well. Find me a good condition! If you cannot, or do not choose to do that, employ me to pursue her, to chase her, to disgrace and to dishonour her. I will help you well, and with a good will. It is what you do. Do I not know that?"
"You appear to know a good deal," Mr. Tulkinghorn retorts.
"Do I not? Is it that I am so weak as to believe, like a child, that I come here in that dress to rec-cive that boy only to decide a little bet, a wager? Eh, my God, oh yes!" In this reply, down to the word "wager" inclusive, mademoiselle has been ironically polite and tender, then as suddenly dashed into the bitterest and most defiant scorn, with her black eyes in one and the same moment very nearly shut and staringly wide open.
"Now, let us see," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, tapping his chin with the key and looking imperturbably at her, "how this matter stands."
"Ah! Let us see," mademoiselle assents, with many angry and tight nods of her head.
"You come here to make a remarkably modest demand, which you have just stated, and it not being conceded, you will come again."
"And again," says mademoiselle with more tight and angry nods. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"
"And not only here, but you will go to Mr, Snagsby's too, perhaps? That visit not succeeding either, you will go again perhaps?"
"And again," repeats mademoiselle, cataleptic with determination. "And yet again. And yet again. And many times again. In effect, for ever!"
"Very well. Now, Mademoiselle Hortense, let me recommend you to take the candle and pick up that money of yours. I think you will find it behind the clerk's partition in the corner yonder."
She merely throws a laugh over her shoulder and stands her ground with folded arms.
"You will not, eh?"
"No, I will not!"
"So much the poorer you; so much the richer I! Look, mistress, this is the key of my wine-cellar. It is a large key, but the keys of prisons are larger. In this city there are houses of correction (where the treadmills are, for women), the gates of which are very strong and heavy, and no doubt the keys too. I am afraid a lady of your spirit and activity would find it an inconvenience to have one of those keys turned upon her for any length of time. What do you think?"
"I think," mademoiselle replies without any action and in a clear, obliging voice, "that you are a miserable wretch."
"Probably," returns Mr. Tulkinghorn, quietly blowing his nose. "But I don't ask what you think of myself; I ask what you think of the prison."
"Nothing. What does it matter to me?"
"Why, it matters this much, mistress," says the lawyer, deliberately putting away his handkerchief and adjusting his frill; "the law is so despotic here that it interferes to prevent any of our good English citizens from being troubled, even by a lady's visits against his desire. And on his complaining that he is so troubled, it takes hold of the troublesome lady and shuts her up in prison under hard discipline. Turns the key upon her, mistress." Illustrating with the cellar-key.
"Truly?" returns mademoiselle in the same pleasant voice. "That is droll! But--my faith! --still what does it matter to me?"
"My fair friend," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "make another visit here, or at Mr. Snagsby's, and you shall learn."
"In that case you will send me to the prison, perhaps?"
It would be contradictory for one in mademoiselle's state of agreeable jocularity to foam at the mouth, otherwise a tigerish expansion thereabouts might look as if a very little more would make her do it.
"In a word, mistress," says Mr. Tulkinghorn, "I am sorry to be unpolite, but if you ever present yourself uninvited here--or there--again, I will give you over to the police. Their gallantry is great, but they carry troublesome people through the streets in an ignominious manner, strapped down on a board, my good wench."
"I will prove you," whispers mademoiselle, stretching out her hand, "I will try if you dare to do it!"
"And if," pursues the lawyer without minding her, "I place you in that good condition of being locked up in jail, it will be some time before you find yourself at liberty again."
"I will prove you," repeats mademoiselle in her former whisper.
"And now," proceeds the lawyer, still without minding her, "you had better go. Think twice before you come here again."
"Think you," she answers, "twice two hundred times!"
"You were dismissed by your lady, you know," Mr. Tulkinghorn observes, following her out upon the staircase, "as the most implacable and unmanageable of women. Now turn over a new leaf and take warning by what I say to you. For what I say, I mean; and what I threaten, I will do, mistress."
She goes down without answering or looking behind her. When she is gone, he goes down too, and returning with his cobweb-covered bottle, devotes himself to a leisurely enjoyment of its contents, now and then, as he throws his head back in his chair, catching sight of the pertinacious Roman pointing from the ceiling.
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Bleak House -- by Charles Dickens