"Then you'll not help me! You will leave me alone after all? Without husband, or friend, or companion, untrusted by my children" (whimper), "alone, alone? In the short time since you have come I have tried to make you happy in your life with us, and you will not do me this least service? Why even poor Gros, whom I never really liked, told me all—all she could see."
The last phrase turned me from pity to pertness. "Madame," I said, "I am not Mademoiselle Gros. I am a friend, not a spy."
"Spy," she repeated, a cold glint in her eyes; and I shrank away from her, not so much through fear of her anger as through shame at my own cruelty.
"No, no, Madame," I cried, "I did not really mean that. I only meant that I am so much friendlier with the girls than Mademoiselle Gros was, that it will be harder for me to be fair to them as well as to you. But I sympathize truly with all your troubles and anxieties. I do really, dear Madame, I do not say it to be polite—and I will always try to help you, I will help you however I can, I want to repay your many kindnesses."
"Ah, thank you, thank you," and she squeezed my hand affectionately, with tears in her eyes. "Now I must see Mademoiselle Gros off."
I followed her out, and went upstairs to my bedroom.
Suzanne was ensconced in my window-seat.
"So you've escaped at last. I ask pardon for installing myself here, but I knew it was the only place where I should have you to myself. What has the old dear been saying?"
"A good many things."
"I know. Begging you to be 'on my side, dear Mademoiselle.' Oh, don't worry, I've not been listening at the door; I've always left that to Gros, who never got anything but earache for her pains. I know it all by heart, though. In brief, she wound up by asking you precisely what I am here to ask you myself: in this delightful family circle of the aristocracy of France, will you be on my side? You hesitate: did you hesitate when she asked you?"