The woman stood with both hands pressed to her breast and Rose watched her pityingly. She had loved her young mistress dearly and had seen much in her short married life to which both husband and wife had been blind. It was several moments before Jacqueline had sufficiently recovered from the shock to speak.
"How—my heart—beats!" she panted. And then after another pause: "What—will he say—to me? But I don't care—I don't care what he says if he will only pardon me enough to let me stay here with my boy. If he—if he refuses to see me—I don't know what will happen to me! Rose! Rose!" she cried, piteously, sobbing on the maid's shoulder, "I—I am afraid!"
Rose patted her shoulder and murmured sympathy until the sobs became less violent. Then she suggested gently:
"Wouldn't it be better to write to Monsieur Floriot, madame? He does—he doesn't expect you and—you know how quick-tempered he is."
"I have written to him! I have written three letters in the last three weeks and he has not answered them."
"He didn't open them," said Rose, very low.
There was another convulsive sob and then Jacqueline straightened and threw back her head, her eyes shining with feverish resolve.
"I must see him! I will see him!" she cried in a high, unnatural voice. "He cannot—he must not condemn me unheard! He loved me a little once—he must hear me now! Does he ever speak of me?"
The maid sadly shook her head.
"Never, madame."