Then the storm broke. Madame Brissac had probably been made aware in the meantime that Madeleine had outraged local conventions by "walking out" with a stranger, and she poured her wrath on Yvonne.
"This is your doing!" she screamed, her black eyes flashing fire, and her swarthy skin bleaching yellow with fury. "You turned her head with your fine friends and their fairy tales. What could I expect but that my girl would be led astray? But her character is not the only one at stake. When we know the truth we'll hear more about that precious aunt of yours. Aunt, indeed! Who ever heard of an aunt screaming for her daughter and meaning her niece?"
Mère Pitou bustled out, breathing the flame of battle. "Marie Brissac," she cried, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself! Isn't this a case of what's bred in the bone coming out in the flesh? Have you forgotten why Jean Brissac married you? Because, if your memory is failing, mine isn't. I can tell you now that Madeleine simply flung herself at that young Englishman's head, and, if that's news to you, it's the talk of everybody else in Pont Aven. Don't you dare come here insulting my friends, or you'll get more than you bargain for!"
"Oh, please, please, don't quarrel with Madame Brissac on my account," wailed Yvonne, daring all, even a blow, and putting her arms round the half-demented woman's shoulders. "You poor dear," she went on in a voice choked with sobbing, "blame me if you wish, but don't condemn Madeleine unheard. It may not be true. Let us pray the good God that it is not true! I love Madeleine as my sister, and I shall never believe that she has fled with any man until I hear it from her own lips."
Anger melted in tears. Madame Brissac suffered Yvonne to lead her back to the deserted cottage. There the two talked for a long time, and the girl got the old woman to agree that, in Madeleine's interests, the fiction of transference to the drapery establishment in Quimperlé should be maintained until something really definite became known. Not that any such, pretense could avail to shield the lost one. The village was already agog with the sensation of Madeleine's flight, and not a soul credited Madame Brissac's story of the Quimperlé cousins. The shy, rabbit-eyed glances of every village girl met in the street told Yvonne that Madeleine could never again raise her head in her native place. The maid of honor was dishonored—the Gorse Flower crushed into the mire!
And all this wretched hotchpotch of suffering and contumely was directly attributable to the presence of her mother in the community! Truly, Yvonne was sorrow-laden and oppressed when she reached the cottage again, and found Harvey Raymond awaiting her.
CHAPTER XI
MUTTERINGS OF STORM
Unfortunately neither Ingersoll nor Tollemache had returned. Yvonne was on the point of asking Raymond to pardon her if she deferred receiving him until the next day, when his adroit brain anticipated some such setback to his plans, and he strove instantly to prevent it.
"I fear you made an unpleasant discovery at Quimperlé today," he said, striking boldly into the one subject that he guessed was occupying her thoughts. "Is Mr. Ingersoll at home? If so, I ought to tell you briefly what I purpose doing to help, as you may not care to discuss the matter in your father's presence."
It was cheering even to hear the man speaking of "help," and he had already given solid proof of honest intent in his stern rebuke of Fosdyke; though, alas! it had come too late to be of any real service. Yvonne's mind belonged to that somewhat rare order that magnifies good and minimizes evil. She was grateful to her mother's secretary for that which he had tried to do, though failing, and abandoned her first design forthwith.