“Will you go to the authorities and denounce me?”
Aunt Medea shook her head.
“I am not such a fool,” she retorted. “I should only compromise myself. No, I shall not do that; but I might, perhaps, tell your husband what happened at the Borderie.”
Blanche shuddered. No threat was capable of moving her like that.
“You shall accompany us, aunt,” said she; “I promise it.”
Then she added, gently:
“But it is unnecessary to threaten me. You have been cruel, aunt, and at the same time, unjust. If you have been unhappy in our house, you alone are to blame. Why have you said nothing? I attributed your complaisance to your affection for me. How was I to know that a woman as quiet and modest as yourself longed for fine apparel. Confess that it was impossible. Had I known—But rest easy, aunt; I will atone for my neglect.”
And as Aunt Medea, having obtained all she desired, stammered an excuse:
“Nonsense!” Blanche exclaimed; “let us forget this foolish quarrel. You forgive me, do you not?”
And the two ladies embraced each other with the greatest effusion, like two friends united after a misunderstanding. But Aunt Medea was as far from being deceived by this mock reconciliation as the clearsighted Blanche.