“Where were you? Where do you come from? Do you know that it is after nine o’clock?”
Such had been Mlle. Gilberte’s state of mind during the whole of that evening, that she had not even thought of finding a pretext to justify her absence. Now it was too late. Besides, what explanation would have been plausible? Instead, therefore, of answering,
“Why, dear mother,” she said with a forced smile, “has it not happened to me twenty times to go out in the neighborhood?”
But Mme. Favoral’s confiding credulity existed no longer.
“I have been blind, Gilberte,” she interrupted; “but this time my eyes must open to evidence. There is in your life a mystery, something extraordinary, which I dare not try to guess.”
Mlle. Gilberte drew herself up, and, looking her mother straight in the eyes, with her beautiful, clear glance,
“Would you suspect me of something wrong, then?” she exclaimed.
Mme. Favoral stopped her with a gesture.
“A young girl who conceals something from her mother always does wrong,” she uttered. “It is a long while since I have had for the first time the presentiment that you were hiding something from me. But, when I questioned you, you succeeded in quieting my suspicions. You have abused my confidence and my weakness.”
This reproach was the most cruel that could be addressed to Mlle. Gilberte. The blood rushed to her face, and, in a firm voice,