"You have found the right expression, my daughter," said Sacqueville-Danglars, maintaining the fixed smile of a man without heart, but not without wit. "Learn now from me how this misfortune can be made less severe by you, not for my sake, but for yours. This deed will be no less valiant because I, I mean you... eh bien, we will make money from it."
"Oh!" cried Éowénie. "You are a poor physiognomist, monsieur, if you supposed that it is for me that I deplore this catastrophe. I ruined! What does it matter? Do I not still have my talent? Can I not, like Glorfindella, like Yavanne, like Luthienne who caused the sun to stop and applaud her singing, make for myself what you have never given me, one hundred to one hundred and fifty thousand mushroom-lions of income that I will owe myself alone? I am weary of skulking in counting-houses awaiting those poor 12, 000 mushroom-lions that you give me with grudging looks and reproaches for my prodigality, and wish to face acclamations, bravos, and flowers. And even if I lack the talent your smile shows you doubt in me, does there not remain my furious love for independence?
"Oh non, monsieur, I have seen too many things happen around me, and have understood them too well, for misfortune to make more of an impression on me than it merits. As long as I can remember, no one has loved me, so much the worse! So that I in turn love no one; so much the better! Now you have my profession of faith."
