Jeannette had seen her again and again, yet never with mademoiselle's knowledge.
For if Jeannette were with her, then, setting her little white teeth closely, mademoiselle did the flights of stairs without a pause; but Jeannette saw how the small hand, once so disdainful of the balusters, now clung to the support. She saw how the pretty throat throbbed, how her bosom heaved, and how the colour left her face; and, seeing, Jeannette's own face grew grey and lined with care.
"It is a merry world," cried mademoiselle, setting the crown of roses on her pretty head, "and love is superfluous."
"So is pride, mamzelle."
Up went the small crowned head.
"Pride superfluous, Jeannette?" haughtily. "Nay, it is but proper and right for those of Ancelles."
Jeannette moistened her dry lips.
"It can be bought too dearly, mamzelle."
"I—do not understand, Jeannette. Surely you are forgetting yourself?"
The eyes were dangerous, the lips haughty, but Jeannette's love for her charge overcame the long reserve and terror of those last months.