“You are ill, I see. Come, let us go home. Come and kiss Jeanne—”
“I!” cried Micheline, with horror, instinctively recoiling as if dreading some impure contact.
Madame Desvarennes became suddenly cold and calm. She foresaw a terrible revelation, and observing her daughter narrowly, said:
“Why do you cry out when I speak of your kissing Jeanne? Whatever is the matter?”
Micheline grasped her mother’s arm, and pointed to Serge and Jeanne, who were in the little drawing-room, laughing and talking, surrounded by a group of people, yet alone.
“Look at them!” she cried.
“What do you mean?” exclaimed the mother in agony. She read the truth in her daughter’s eyes.
“You know—” she began.
“That he is her lover,” cried Micheline, interrupting her. “Don’t you see that I am dying through it?” she added, sobbing bitterly and falling into her mother’s arms.
The mistress carried her as if she had been a child into Cayrol’s private office, and shut the door. Then, kneeling beside the couch on which Micheline was stretched, she gave vent to her grief. She begged her daughter to speak to her, and warmed her hands with kisses; then, seeing her still cold and motionless, she was frightened, and wanted to call for help.