“No; be quiet!” murmured Micheline, recovering.  “Let no one know.  I ought to have held my peace; but I have suffered so much I could not help myself.

“My life is blasted, you see.  Take me away; save me from this infamy!  Jeanne, my sister, and Serge.  Oh! make me forget it!  For pity’s sake, mamma, you who are so strong, you who have always done what you wished, take from my heart all the pain that is there!”

Madame Desvarennes, overcome by such a load of grief, lost command of herself, and, quite brokenhearted, began to cry and moan.

“O God!  Micheline, my poor child! you were suffering so and did not tell me.  Oh!  I knew you no longer trusted your old mother.  And I stupidly did not guess it!  I said to myself, at least she knows nothing about it, and sacrificed everything to keep the knowledge of their wrong-doing from you.  Don’t cry any more, darling, you will break my heart.  I, who would have given up everything in the world to see you happy!  Oh, I have loved you too much!  How I am punished!”

“It is I who am punished,” said Micheline, sobbing, “for not obeying you.  Ah! children ought always to heed their mother.  She divines the danger.  Is it not too horrible, mamma?  I, who have sacrificed everything for him, to think that he does not love me, and never will love me!  What will my life be without confidence, hope, or affection?  I am too unhappy.  It would be better to die!”

“Die! you!” cried her mother, whose eyes, wet with tears, dried in a moment, as if by an inward fire.  “Die!  Come, don’t talk such nonsense!  Because a man treats you with scorn and betrays you?  Are men worth dying for?  No, you shall live, my darling, with your old mother.  You shall have a deed of separation from your husband.”

“And he will be free,” exclaimed Micheline, angrily.  “He will go on loving her!  Oh!  I cannot bear that thought.  Do you know, what I am going to tell you seems awful.  I love him so much, that I would rather see him dead than unfaithful.”

Madame Desvarennes was struck, and remained silent.  Serge dead!  That idea had already occurred to her as a dream of deliverance.  It came upon her peremptorily, violently, irresistibly.  She repelled it with an effort.

“I can never think of him but as vile and odious,” continued Micheline.  “Every day his sin will seem more dastardly and his hypocrisy more base.  There, a little while ago, he was smiling; and do you know why?  Because Cayrol is going away, and during his absence Serge will return here tonight.”

“Who told you?”

“I read it in his joyful looks.  I love him.  He cannot hide anything from me.  A traitor to me, and a traitor toward his friend, that is the man whom—­I am ashamed to own it—­I love!”

“Compose yourself!  Someone is coming,” said Madame Desvarennes, and at the same time the door opened and Jeanne appeared, followed by Marechal, who was anxious at their disappearance.