“How good of you!” she said, with all confidence to her husband.

“It is a picture by Marien!—­A portrait by Marien!  A likeness of Jacqueline!”

And he uncovered the masterpiece of the great artist, expecting to be joyous in the joy with which she would receive it.  But something strange occurred.  Madame de Nailles sprang back a step or two, stretching out her arms as if repelling an apparition, her face was distorted, her head was turned away; then she dropped into the nearest seat and burst into tears.

“Mamma!—­dear little mamma!—­what is it?” cried Jacqueline, springing forward to kiss her.

Madame de Nailles disengaged herself angrily from her embrace.

“Let me alone!” she cried, “let me alone!—­How dared you?”

And impetuously, hardly restraining a gesture of horror and hate, she rushed into her own chamber.  Thither her husband followed her, anxious and bewildered, and there he witnessed a nervous attack which ended in a torrent of reproaches: 

Was it possible that he had, not seen the impropriety of those sittings to Marien?  Oh, yes!  No doubt he was an old friend of the family, but that did not prevent all these deceptions, all these disguises, and all the other follies which he had sanctioned—­he—­Jacqueline’s father!—­from being very improper.  Did he wish to take from her all authority over his child?—­a girl who was already too much disposed to emancipate herself.  Her own efforts had all been directed to curb this alarming propensity—­yes, alarming—­alarming for the future.  And all in vain!  There was no use in saying more.  ‘Mon Dieu’! had he no trust in her devotion to his child, in her prudence and her foresight, that he must thwart her thus?  And she had always imagined that for ten years she had faithfully fulfilled a mother’s duties!  What ingratitude from every one!  Mademoiselle Schult should be sent away at once.  Jacqueline should go to a convent.  They would break off all intercourse with Marien.  They had conspired against her—­every one.

And then she wept more bitterly than ever—­tears of rage, salt tears which rubbed the powder off her cheeks and disfigured the face that had remained beautiful by her power of will and self-control.  But now the disorder of her nerves got the better of precautions.  The blonde angel, whose beauty was on the wane, was transformed into a fury.  Her six-and-thirty years were fully apparent, her complexion appeared slightly blotched, all her defects were obtrusive in contrast with the precocious development of beauty in Jacqueline.  She was firmly resolved that her stepdaughter’s obtrusive womanhood should remain in obscurity a very much longer time, under pretence that Jacqueline was still a child.  She was a child, at any rate!  The portrait was a lie! an imposture! an affront! an outrage!