Mme. Fauvel was overcome by the magnitude of this devotion.
“And what is to become of Prosper, my poor child—Prosper, whom you love?”
Madeleine stifled a sob, and said in a firm voice:
“To-morrow I will break off my engagement with M. Bertomy.”
“I will never permit such a wrong,” cried Mme. Fauvel. “I will not add to my sins by suffering an innocent girl to bear their penalty.”
The noble girl sadly shook her head, and replied:
“Neither will I suffer dishonor to fall upon this house, which is my home, while I have power to prevent it. Am I not indebted to you for more than life? What would I now be had you not taken pity on me? A factory girl in my native village. You warmly welcomed the poor orphan, and became a mother to her. Is it not to your husband that I owe the fortune which excites the cupidity of this wicked Clameran? Are not Abel and Lucien brothers to me? And now, when the happiness of all who have been loving and generous to me is at stake, do you suppose I would hesitate? No. I will become the wife of Clameran.”
Then began a struggle of self-sacrifice between Mme. Fauvel and her niece, as to which should be the victim; only the more sublime, because each offered her life to the other, not from any sudden impulse, but deliberately and willingly.
But Madeleine carried the day, fired as she was by that holy enthusiasm of sacrifice which is the sustaining element of martyrs.
“I am responsible to none but myself,” said she, well knowing this to be the most vulnerable point she could attack; “whilst you, dear aunt, are accountable to your husband and children. Think of the pain and sorrow of M. Fauvel if he should learn the truth; it would kill him.”