“Now, Madame, as wife and mistress of Keragouil, I think it is well that you understand your position and what I expect of you,” said the Comte, waving her to a seat and occupying a fauteuil in magisterial fashion.  “I expect that you will learn in a willing spirit what I shall teach you, that you may become worthy of the noble position you occupy.”

“Oh, M’sieur may be sure I’ll do my best,” said Francine, quite overcome.

“I expect you to show me the deference and obedience that I demand as head of the house of Bonzag.”

“Oh, M’sieur le Comte, how could you think—­”

“To be economical and amiable.”

“Yes, indeed, M’sieur.”

“To listen when I speak, to forget you were a peasant, to give me three desserts a week, and never, madame, to show me the slightest infidelity.”

At these last words, Francine, already overcome by the rapid whirl of fortune, as well as by the overcharged spirits of the potent Burgundy, burst into tears.

“And no tears!” said De Bonzag, withdrawing sternly.

“No, M’sieur; no,” Francine cried, hastily drying her eyes.  Then dropping on her knees, she managed to say:  “Oh, M’sieur—­pardon, pardon.”

“What do you mean?” cried the Comte, furiously.

“Oh, M’sieur forgive me—­I will tell you all!”

“Madame—­Madame, I don’t understand,” said the Comte, mastering himself with difficulty.  “Proceed; I am listening.”

“Oh, M’sieur le Comte, I’ll tell you all.  I swear it on the image of St. Jacques d’Acquin.”

“You have not lied to me about your child?” cried Bonzag in horror.

“No, no, M’sieur; not that,” said Francine.  Then, hiding her face, she said:  “M’sieur, I hid something from you:  I loved Andoche.”

“Ah!” said the Comte, with a sigh of relief.  He sat down, adding sympathetically:  “My poor Francine, I know it.  Alas!  That’s what life is.”

“Oh, M’sieur, it’s all over; I swear it!” Francine cried in protest.  “But I loved him well, and he loved me—­oh, how he loved me, M’sieur le Comte!  Pardon, M’sieur, but at that time I didn’t think of being a comtesse, M’sieur le Comte.  And when M’sieur spoke to me, I didn’t know what to do.  My heart was all given to Andoche, but—­well, M’sieur, the truth is, I began to think of my little girl, and I said to myself, I must think of her, because, M’sieur, I thought of the position it would give her, if I were a Comtesse.  What a step in the world, eh?  And I said, you must do it for her!  So I went to Andoche, and I told him all—­yes, all, M’sieur—­that my heart was his, but that my duty was to her.  And Andoche, ah, what a good heart, M’sieur—­he understood—­we wept together.”  She choked a minute, put her handkerchief hastily to her eyes, “Pardon, M’sieur; and he said it was right, and I kissed him—­I hide nothing, M’sieur will pardon me that,—­and he went away!” She took a step toward him, twisting her handkerchief, adding in a timid appeal:  “M’sieur understands why I tell him that?  M’sieur will believe me.  I have killed all that.  It is no more in my heart.  I swear it by the image of St. Jacques d’Acquin.”