“Look at these pretty verses Monsieur de Gerfaut has written in my album, Clemence,” said Aline, in her turn.  During vacation, among her other pleasures forbidden her at the Sacred Heart, the young girl had purchased a superbly bound album, containing so far but two ugly sketches in sepia, one very bad attempt in water-colors, and the verses in question.  She called this “my album!” as she called a certain little blank book, “my diary!” To the latter she confided every night the important events of the day.  This book had assumed such proportions, during the last few days, that it threatened to reach the dimensions of the Duchesse d’Abrantes’ memoires, but if the album was free to public admiration, nobody ever saw the diary, and Justine herself never had been able to discover the sanctuary that concealed this mysterious manuscript.

Aline was not so pleasantly received as the others, and Madame de Bergenheim hardly concealed the ill-humor her pretty sister-in-law’s beaming face caused her every time Octave’s name was mentioned.

The latter’s diplomatic conduct was bearing fruit, and his expectations were being fulfilled with a precision which proved the correctness of his calculations.

In the midst of all the contradictory sentiments of fear, remorse, vexation, love, and jealousy, Clemence’s head was so turned, at times, that she did not know what she did want.  She found herself in one of those situations when a woman of a complex and mobile character whom all sensations impress, passes, with surprising facility, from one resolve to another entirely opposed to it.  After being frightened beyond measure by her lover’s presence in her husband’s house, she ended by becoming accustomed to it, and then by ridiculing her first terror.

“Truly,” she thought, at times, “I was too silly thus to torment myself and make myself ill; I was wanting in self-respect to mistrust myself to such an extent, and to see danger where there was none.  He can not expect to make himself so very formidable while scrawling this genealogical tree.  If he came one hundred leagues from Paris for that, he really does not merit such severe treatment.”

Then, having thus reassured herself against the perils of her position, without realizing that to fear danger less was to embolden love, she proceeded to examine her lover’s conduct.

“He seems perfectly resigned,” she said, to herself; “not one word or glance for two days!  Since he resigns himself so easily, he might, it seems to me, obey me entirely and go away; or, if he wishes to disobey me, he might do it in a less disagreeable manner.  For really, his manner is almost rude; he might at least remember that I am his hostess, and that he is in my house.  I do not see what pleasure he can take in talking to this little girl.  I wager that his only object is to annoy me!  He deceives himself most assuredly; it is all the same to me!  But Aline takes all this seriously!  She has become very coquettish, the last few days!  It certainly is very wrong for him to try to turn this child’s head.  I should like to know what he would say to justify himself.”