“Are you satisfied with me?”

“I am satisfied that we have left Rome,” said she, evasively, and it was true in two senses of the word: 

First of all, because she did not delude herself with regard to the return of the moral energy of which Boleslas was so proud.  She knew that his variable will was at the mercy of the first sensation.  Then, what she had not confessed to her husband, the sorrow of a broken friendship was joined in her to the sorrows of a betrayed wife.  The sudden discovery of the infamy of Alba’s mother had not destroyed her strong affection for the young girl, and during the entire week, busy with her preparations for a final departure, she had not ceased to wonder anxiously:  “What will she think of my silence?....  What has her mother told her?....  What has she divined?”

She had loved the “poor little soul,” as she called the Contessina in her pretty English term.  She had devoted to her the friendship peculiar to young women for young girls—­a sentiment—­very strong and yet very delicate, which resembles, in its tenderness, the devotion of an elder sister for a younger.  There is in it a little naive protection and also a little romantic and gracious melancholy.  The elder friend is severe and critical.  She tries to assuage, while envying them, the excessive enthusiasms of the younger.  She receives, she provokes her confidence with the touching gravity of a counsellor.  The younger friend is curious and admiring.  She shows herself in all the truth of that graceful awakening of thoughts and emotions which precede her own period before marriage.  And when there is, as was the case with Alba Steno, a certain discord of soul between that younger friend and her mother, the affection for the sister chosen becomes so deep that it can not be broken without wounds on both sides.  It was for that reason that, on leaving Rome, faithful and noble Maud experienced at once a sense of relief and of pain—­of relief, because she was no longer exposed to the danger of an explanation with Alba; of pain, because it was so bitter a thought for her that she could never justify her heart to her friend, could never aid her in emerging from the difficulties of her life, could, finally, never love her openly as she had loved her secretly.  She said to herself as she saw the city disappear in the night with its curves and its lights: 

“If she thinks badly of me, may she divine nothing!  Who will now prevent her from yielding herself up to her sentiment for that dangerous and perfidious Dorsenne?  Who will console her when she is sad?  Who will defend her against her mother?  I was perhaps wrong in writing to the woman, as I did, the letter, which might have been delivered to her in her daughter’s presence....  Ah, poor little soul!....  May God watch over her!”

She turned, then, toward her son, whose hair she stroked, as if to exorcise, by the evidence of present duty, the nostalgia which possessed her at the thought of an affection sacrificed forever.  Hers was a nature too active, too habituated to the British virtue of self-control to submit to the languor of vain emotions.