other women deprived of their children, cast her motherliness about the girl,—­yet without disregarding the commands of her husband, who distrusted female intimacies.  Those commands were brief.  “If any man, of any age, or any rank,” Dumay said, “speaks to Modeste, ogles her, makes love to her, he is a dead man.  I’ll blow his brains out and give myself to the authorities; my death may save her.  If you don’t wish to see my head cut off, do you take my place in watching her when I am obliged to go out.”

For the last three years Dumay had examined his pistols every night.  He seemed to have put half the burden of his oath upon the Pyrenean hounds, two animals of uncommon sagacity.  One slept inside the Chalet, the other was stationed in a kennel which he never left, and where he never barked; but terrible would have been the moment had the pair made their teeth meet in some unknown adventurer.

We can now imagine the sort of life led by mother and daughter at the Chalet.  Monsieur and Madame Latournelle, often accompanied by Gobenheim, came to call and play whist with Dumay nearly every evening.  The conversation turned on the gossip of Havre and the petty events of provincial life.  The little company separated between nine and ten o’clock.  Modeste put her mother to bed, and together they said their prayers, kept up each other’s courage, and talked of the dear absent one, the husband and father.  After kissing her mother for good-night, the girl went to her own room about ten o’clock.  The next morning she prepared her mother for the day with the same care, the same prayers, the same prattle.  To her praise be it said that from the day when the terrible infirmity deprived her mother of a sense, Modeste had been like a servant to her, displaying at all times the same solicitude; never wearying of the duty, never thinking it monotonous.  Such constant devotion, combined with a tenderness rare among young girls, was thoroughly appreciated by those who witnessed it.  To the Latournelle family, and to Monsieur and Madame Dumay, Modeste was, in soul, the pearl of price.

On sunny days, between breakfast and dinner, Madame Mignon and Madame Dumay took a little walk toward the sea.  Modeste accompanied them, for two arms were needed to support the blind mother.  About a month before the scene to which this explanation is a parenthesis, Madame Mignon had taken counsel with her friends, Madame Latournelle, the notary, and Dumay, while Madame Dumay carried Modeste in another direction for a longer walk.

“Listen to what I have to say,” said the blind woman.  “My daughter is in love.  I feel it; I see it.  A singular change has taken place within her, and I do not see how it is that none of you have perceived it.”

“In the name of all that’s honorable—­” cried the lieutenant.