“Go; yes, you shall go,” said Marston, striding toward the window.  “I will have no whispering or conspiring in my house:  I have heard of your confidences and consultations.  Mrs. Marston, I meant to have done this quietly,” he continued, addressing his wife; “I meant to have given Mademoiselle de Barras my opinion and her dismissal without your assistance; but it seems you wish to interpose.  You are sworn friends, and never fail one another, of course, at a pinch.  I take it for granted that I owe your presence at our interview which I am resolved shall be, as respects mademoiselle, a final one, to a message from that intriguing young lady—­eh?”

“I have had no message, Richard,” said Mrs. Marston; “I don’t know—­do tell me, for God’s sake, what is all this about?” And as the poor lady thus spoke, her overwrought feelings found vent in a violent flood of tears.

“Yes, madame, that is the question.  I have asked him frequently what is all this anger, all these reproaches about; what have I done?” interposed mademoiselle, with indignant vehemence, standing erect, and viewing Marston with a flashing eye and a flushed cheek.  “Yes, I am called conspirator, meddler, intrigant.  Ah, madame, it is intolerable.”

“But what have I done, Richard?” urged the poor lady, stunned and bewildered; “how have I offended you?”

“Yes, yes,” continued the Frenchwoman, with angry volubility, “what has she done that you call contumacy and disrespect?  Yes, dear madame, there is the question; and if he cannot answer, is it not most cruel to call me conspirator, and spy, and intrigant, because I talk to my dear madame, who is my only friend in this place?”

“Mademoiselle de Barras, I need no declamation from you; and, pardon me, Mrs. Marston, nor from you either,” retorted he; “I have my information from one on whom I can rely; let that suffice.  Of course you are both agreed in a story.  I dare say you are ready to swear you never so much as canvassed my conduct, and my coldness and estrangement—­eh?  These are the words, are not they?”

“I have done you no wrong, sir; madame can tell you.  I am no mischief-maker; no, I never was such a thing.  Was I, madame?” persisted the governess—­“bear witness for me?”

“I have told you my mind, Mademoiselle de Barras,” interrupted Marston; “I will have no altercation, if you please.  I think, Mrs. Marston, we have had enough of this; may I accompany you hence?”

So saying, he took the poor lady’s passive hand, and led her from the room.  Mademoiselle stood in the center of the apartment, alone, erect, with heaving breast and burning cheek—­beautiful, thoughtful, guilty—­the very type of the fallen angelic.  There for a time, her heart all confusion, her mind darkened, we must leave her; various courses before her, and as yet without resolution to choose among them; a lost spirit, borne on the eddies of the storm; fearless and self-reliant, but with no star to guide her on her dark, malign, and forlorn way.