“You are mistaken, dear mother,” said she, “I have concealed nothing from you.”

Not quite convinced, Mme. Favoral shook her head.

“Then,” said she, “you will yield.”

“Never!”

“Then there must be some reason you do not tell me.”

“None, except that I do not wish to leave you.  Have you ever thought what would be your existence if I were no longer here?  Have you ever asked yourself what would become of you, between my father, whose despotism will grow heavier with age, and my brother?”

Always prompt to defend her son: 

“Maxence is not bad,” she interrupted:  “he will know how to compensate me for the sorrows he has inflicted upon me.”

The young girl made a gesture of doubt: 

“I wish it, dear mother,” said she, “with all my heart; but I dare not hope for it.  His repentance to-night was great and sincere; but will he remember it to-morrow?  Besides, don’t you know that father has fully resolved to separate himself from Maxence?  Think of yourself alone here with father.”

Mme. Favoral shuddered at the mere idea.

“I would not suffer very long,” she murmured.  Mlle. Gilberte kissed her.

“It is because I wish you to live to be happy that I refuse to marry,” she exclaimed.  “Must you not have your share of happiness in this world?  Let me manage.  Who knows what compensations the future may have in store for you?  Besides, this person whom father has selected for me does not suit me.  A stock-jobber, who would think of nothing but money,—­who would examine my house-accounts as papa does yours, or else who would load me with cashmeres and diamonds, like Mme. de Thaller, to make of me a sign for his shop?  No, no!  I want no such man.  So, mother dear, be brave, take sides boldly with your daughter, and we shall soon be rid of this would-be husband.”

“Your father will bring him to you:  he said he would.”

“Well, he is a man of courage, if he returns three times.”

At this moment the parlor-door opened suddenly.

“What are you plotting here again?” cried the irritated voice of the master.  “And you, Mme. Favoral, why don’t you go to bed?”

The poor slave obeyed, without saying a word.  And, whilst making her way to her room: 

“There is trouble ahead,” thought Mlle. Gilberte.  “But bash!  If I do have to suffer some, it won’t be great harm, after all.  Surely Marius does not complain, though he gives up for me his dearest hopes, becomes the salaried employe of M. Marcolet, and thinks of nothing but making money,—­he so proud and so disinterested!”

Mlle. Gilberte’s anticipations were but too soon realized.  When M. Favoral made his appearance the next morning, he had the sombre brow and contracted lips of a man who has spent the night ruminating a plan from which he does not mean to swerve.