"It is untrue, you say," said Mme. de Blauve; "but, my little friend, experience has taught me that there is always a grain of truth at the bottom of a wide-spread rumor. Whether good or bad, such plants do not grow out of nothing."
Odette told her upon how slight a fact this rumor might possibly have been based. She had lunched at Clotilde Avvogade's with a blinded officer, and Clotilde insisted that she had pleased him.
"Nothing more would be needed!" said Mme. de Blauve, "and your friend has probably told the story all around. It must be so, for I have heard the name of the man, the institution where he has been re-educated; I even know all about his circumstances; he is a widower without fortune of any sort, and father of two little children about whom he feels great anxiety."
"Well," said Odette, "for my part I knew nothing of these last particulars, and this is surely a proof that my romance has not gone very far."
Mme. de Blauve was lost in apologies. Nevertheless, she did not go so far as to regret the step she had taken. If it proved to have no reason in the present case, an analogous case might arise; she knew Odette's susceptibility, the noble impulses of her soul, and it was her duty to warn her against impressions and impulses——
"What!" interrupted Odette; "you, madame, whose daughter——"
"Yes, yes, precisely I, 'whose daughter'—It is because my daughter has made a marriage—beautiful, surely, from the moral point of view, but, after all, a marriage—how shall I say it—somewhat daring, that I believe myself to be authorized to say to you: 'My very dear child, be careful, reflect!' Understand me; I regret nothing that has occurred; I congratulate myself on the happiness which my daughter is assuring to a victim of the war, who is a hundred times deserving of it. Let me tell you, by way of parenthesis, that my daughter has hope of a child, and I trust that God will bring everything out right, although——"
"Although," repeated Odette anxiously.
"Although—oh, the dear child is lacking neither in love nor in admiration for her husband, who is a hero; but our poor human nature has strange revulsions—I tell you, you alone, in confidence; since my daughter has reason for hope of becoming a mother, she feels—alas! it is frightful, let me whisper it to you—she feels a sort of apprehension at the sight of her husband, whose terrible affliction you know of!— We must, at all costs, prevent her husband having the slightest suspicion of the—temporary—feeling that he inspires, and the young wife is obliged to put the strongest restraint upon herself in order to show nothing. Just how far this incessant constraint is consistent with the happy maintenance of her condition, and with hope for its normal outcome, who shall say? This is what we are asking ourselves, this is our anxiety."
"Oh, dear, dear madame, how sorry I am for you!"