"But you had ten years, dear mamma, and I have had but three!" said the self-absorbed girl.
"Nothing is lost yet," said Adeline. "Only wait till Wenceslas comes."
"Mother," said she, "he lied, he deceived me. He said, 'I will not go,' and he went. And that over his child's cradle."
"For pleasure, my child, men will commit the most cowardly, the most infamous actions—even crimes; it lies in their nature, it would seem. We wives are set apart for sacrifice. I believed my troubles were ended, and they are beginning again, for I never thought to suffer doubly by suffering with my child. Courage—and silence!—My Hortense, swear that you will never discuss your griefs with anybody but me, never let them be suspected by any third person. Oh! be as proud as your mother has been."
Hortense started; she had heard her husband's step.
"So it would seem," said Wenceslas, as he came in, "that Stidmann has been here while I went to see him."
"Indeed!" said Hortense, with the angry irony of an offended woman who uses words to stab.
"Certainly," said Wenceslas, affecting surprise. "We have just met."
"And yesterday?"
"Well, yesterday I deceived you, my darling love; and your mother shall judge between us."