“What is a lover, cousin?”

Sylvie avoided answering, and said:—­

“Do you dare to tell me, mademoiselle, that a man did not come under your window and talk to you of marriage?”

Persecution had taught Pierrette the wariness of slaves; so she answered bravely:—­

“I don’t know what you mean,—­”

“Who means?—­your dog?” said Sylvie, sharply.

“I should have said ‘cousin,’” replied the girl, humbly.

“And didn’t you get up and go in your bare feet to the window?—­which will give you an illness; and serve you right, too.  And perhaps you didn’t talk to your lover, either?”

“No, cousin.”

“I know you have many faults, but I did not think you told lies.  You had better think this over, mademoiselle; you will have to explain this affair to your cousin and to me, or your cousin will be obliged to take severe measures.”

The old maid, exasperated by jealousy and curiosity, meant to frighten the girl.  Pierrette, like all those who suffer more than they have strength to bear, kept silence.  Silence is the only weapon by which such victims can conquer; it baffles the Cossack charges of envy, the savage skirmishings of suspicion; it does at times give victory, crushing and complete,—­for what is more complete than silence? it is absolute; it is one of the attributes of infinity.  Sylvie watched Pierrette narrowly.  The girl colored; but the color, instead of rising evenly, came out in patches on her cheekbones, in burning and significant spots.  A mother, seeing that symptom of illness, would have changed her tone at once; she would have taken the child on her lap and questioned her; in fact, she would long ago have tenderly understood the signs of Pierrette’s pure and perfect innocence; she would have seen her weakness and known that the disturbance of the digestive organs and the other functions of the body was about to affect the lungs.  Those eloquent patches would have warned her of an imminent danger.  But an old maid, one in whom the family instincts have never been awakened, to whom the needs of childhood and the precautions required for adolescence were unknown, had neither the indulgence nor the compassionate intelligence of a mother; such sufferings as those of Pierrette, instead of softening her heart only made it more callous.

“She blushes, she is guilty!” thought Sylvie.

Pierrette’s silence was thus interpreted to her injury.

“Pierrette,” continued Sylvie, “before your cousin comes down we must have some talk together.  Come,” she said, in a rather softer tone, “shut the street door; if any one comes they will rung and we shall hear them.”

In spite of the damp mist which was rising from the river, Sylvie took Pierrette along the winding gravel path which led across the lawn to the edge of the rock terrace,—­a picturesque little quay, covered with iris and aquatic plants.  She now changed her tactics, thinking she might catch Pierrette tripping by softness; the hyena became a cat.