“The night he used his influence with me to get me to marry Cayrol, he assured me so on his word of honor!”

“Honor!” ironically repeated Madame Desvarennes, overwhelmed.  “How he has deceived us all!  But what can I do?  What course can I take?  A separation?  Micheline would not consent.  She loves him.”

And, in an outburst of fury, she cried: 

“Is it possible that that stupid girl loves that worthless dandy?  And she has my blood in her veins!  If she knew the truth she would die!”

“Am I dead?” asked Jeanne, gloomily.

“You have an energetic nature,” retorted the mistress, compassionately; “but she is so weak, so gentle!  Ah!  Jeanne, think what I have been to you; raise some insurmountable barrier between yourself and Serge!

“Go back to your husband.  You would not go with him a little while ago.  It was folly.  If you separate from Cayrol, you will not be able to keep away Serge, and you will take my daughter’s husband from her!”

“Ah! you think only of her!  Her, always!  She above all!” cried Jeanne, with rage.  “But me, I exist, I count, I have the right to be protected, of being happy!  And you wish me to sacrifice myself, to give myself up to this man, whom I do not love, and who terrifies me?”

This time the question was plainly put.  Madame Desvarennes became herself.  She straightened her figure, and in her commanding voice whose authority no one resisted, said: 

“What then?  You wish to be separated from him?  To regain your liberty at the price of scandal?  And what liberty?  You will be repulsed, disdained.  Believe me, impose silence on your heart and listen to your reason.  Your husband is a good, loyal man.  If you cannot love him, he will command your respect.  In marrying him, you have entered into engagements toward him.  Fulfil them; it is your duty.”

Jeanne felt overpowered and vanquished.  “But what will my life be?” she groaned.

“That of an honest woman,” replied Madame Desvarennes, with true grandeur.  “Be a wife; God will make you a mother, and you will be saved.”

Jeanne bowed herself at these words.  She no longer felt in them the selfishness of the mother.  What the mistress now said was sincere and true.  It was no longer her agitated and alarmed heart that inspired her; it was her conscience, calm and sincere.

“Very well; I will obey you,” said the young wife, simply.  “Kiss me then, mother.”

She bent her brow, and Madame Desvarennes let tears of gratitude and admiration fall on it.  Then Jeanne went of her own accord to the room door.

“Come, Monsieur,” called she to Cayrol.

The husband, grown cooler while waiting, and troubled at the length of the interview, showed his anxious face on the threshold.  He saw Madame Desvarennes grave, and Jeanne collected.  He dared not speak.