And as Micheline seemed to doubt what she was saying, the latter added:
“The doctor told me when I went to see him about it. I never had much faith in doctors, and now—”
Micheline felt she was on delicate ground, and wanted to change the subject. She soothed her mother as in days gone by, saying:
“Come, mamma; will you never be able to get used to your part? Must you always be jealous? You know all wives leave their mothers to follow their husbands. It is the law of nature. You, in your day, remember, followed your husband, and your mother must have wept.”
“Did my mother love me as I love you?” asked Madame Desvarennes, impetuously. “I was brought up differently. We had not time to love each other so much. We had to work. The happiness of spoiling one’s child is a privilege of the rich. For you there was no down warm enough or silk soft enough to line your cradle. You have been petted and worshipped for twenty years. Yet, it only needed a man, whom you scarcely knew six months ago, to make you forget everything.”
“I have not forgotten anything,” replied Micheline, moved by these passionate expressions. “And in my heart you still hold the same place.”
The mistress looked at the young wife, then, in a sad tone, said:
“It is no longer the first place.”
This simple, selfish view made Micheline smile.
“It is just like you, you tyrant!” she exclaimed. “You must be first. Come, be satisfied with equality! Remember that you were first in the field, and that for twenty years I have loved you, while he has to make up for lost time. Don’t try to make a comparison between my love for him and my affection for you. Be kind: instead of looking black at him, try to love him. I should be so happy to see you united, and to be able, without reservation, to think of you both with the same tenderness!”