“Yes,” she had said, frankly, “I am jealous; I want things to myself.  I own I was angry when I thought that Jacqueline was about to throw off my authority, and hurt when I found she was capable of keeping up a concealment—­when I believed she was so open always with me.  My behavior was foolish, I acknowledge.  But what can we do?  Neither of us can go and ask her pardon?”

“Of course not,” said the father, “all we can do is to treat her with a little more consideration for the future; and, with your permission, I shall use her illness as an excuse for spoiling her a little.”

“You have carte blanche, my dear, I agree to everything.”  So M. de Nailles, with his daughter’s arm in his, began to spoil her, as he had intended.

“You are still rather pale,” he said, “but sea-bathing will change all that.  Would you like to go to the seaside next month?”

Jacqueline answered with a little incredulous smile: 

“Oh, certainly, papa.”

“You don’t seem very sure about it.  In the first place, where shall we go?  Your mamma seems to fancy Houlgate?”

“Of course we must do what she wishes,” replied Jacqueline, rather bitterly.

“But, little daughter, what would you like?  What do you say to Treport?”

“I should like Treport very much, because there we should be near Madame d’Argy.”

Jacqueline had felt much drawn to Madame d’Argy since her troubles, for she had been the nearest friend of her own mother—­her own dead mother, too long forgotten.  The chateau of Madame d’Argy, called Lizerolles, was only two miles from Treport, in a charming situation on the road to St. Valery.

“That’s the very thing, then!” said M. de Nailles.

“Fred is going to spend a month at Lizerolles with his mother.  You might ride on horseback with him.  He is going to enjoy a holiday, poor fellow! before he has to be sent off on long and distant voyages.”

“I don’t know how to ride,” said Jacqueline, still in the tone of a victim.

“The doctor thinks riding would be good for you, and you have time enough yet to take some lessons.  Mademoiselle Schult could take you nine or ten times to the riding-school.  And I will go with you the first time,” added M. de Nailles, in despair at not having been able to please her.  “To-day we will go to Blackfern’s and order a habit—­a riding-habit!  Can I do more?”

At this, as if by magic, whether she would or not, the lines of sadness and sullenness disappeared from Jacqueline’s face; her eyes sparkled.  She gave one more proof, that to every Parisienne worthy of the name, the two pleasures in riding are, first to have a perfectly fitting habit, secondly, to have the opportunity of showing how pretty she can be after a new fashion.

“Shall we go to Blackfern’s now?”

“This very moment, if you wish it.”

“You really mean Blackfern?  Yvonne’s habit came from Blackfern’s!” Yvonne d’Etaples was the incarnation of chic—­of fashionable elegance—­in Jacqueline’s eyes.  Her heart beat with pleasure when she thought how Belle and Dolly would envy her when she told them:  “I have a myrtle-green riding-habit, just like Yvonne’s.”  She danced rather than walked as they went together to Blackfern’s.  A habit was much nicer than a long gown.