"Oh, do go in again, please," said Mme. Bourjot to the people who were standing round her in the garden, to which she had been carried for air. "It's all over; there's nothing the matter with me now; it was the heat." She was very pale, but she smiled as she spoke. "I shall be quite right again when I have had a little more air. M. Henri will perhaps stay with me."

Every one returned to the house, and the sound of the footsteps had scarcely died away, when Mme. Bourjot seized Henri's arm in a firm grip with her feverish fingers.

"You love her!" she exclaimed. "You love her!"

"Madame," said Henri.

"Be quiet; you won't tell me the truth!" she exclaimed, pushing his arm away.

Henri merely bowed without attempting to speak.

"I know all. I saw everything. Look at me!" she went on, and she gazed into his eyes. He kept his head bent and was silent. "Say something, anyhow—speak. Ah, you can only act comedy with her!"

"The fact is I have nothing to say, Laure," replied Henri, speaking in his gentlest and clearest voice. Mme. Bourjot drew back when he called her Laure as if he had touched her. "I have been struggling against it for the last year, madame," he continued. "I will not attempt to make any excuse; but everything has drawn me to her. We have known each other from childhood, and the fascination has increased lately day by day. I am very sorry, madame, to have to tell you the truth; but it is quite true that I love your daughter."

"But you never can have talked to her, surely? Why, I blush for her when we are out—you surely have not even looked at her. What in the world possesses you men, tell me! Do you think she is beautiful? What nonsense! why, I am better looking than she is. You are so foolish, all of you. And then, I have spoiled you. You'll see whether she will pamper your pride, let you revel in your vanity, and flatter and help you in your ambitions. Oh, I know you thoroughly. Ah, M. Mauperin, all this is only met with once in a lifetime. And women of my age—old women, you understand—are the only ones who care about the future of those they love. You were not my lover; you were like a dear son to me!" As she said this, Mme. Bourjot's voice changed and she spoke with the deepest feeling. "That's enough, though; we won't talk about that," she continued in a different tone. "I tell you that you don't love my daughter—it is not true—but she is rich——"

"Oh, madame!"

"Well, there are men like that—I have had them pointed out to me. Sometimes it succeeds to begin with the mother in order to finish with the dowry. And for the sake of a million, you know, one can put up with being bored."

"Speak more quietly, I beg you—for your own sake. They have just opened one of the windows."

"It's very fine to be so calm and collected, M. Mauperin, very fine—very fine indeed," said Mme. Bourjot, and her low, hissing voice sounded choked.

Some clouds that were moving quickly along in the sky passed like the wings of night-birds over the moon, and Mme. Bourjot gazed blankly into the darkness in front of her. With her elbows resting on her knees and supported by her high heels, she remained silent, tapping the gravel path with her satin slippers. After a few minutes she sat up, moved her arms about in an unconscious way as though she were scarcely awake, then quickly, and in a jerky way, she put her hand between her dress and waistband, pressing the back of her hand against the ribbon as though she were going to burst it. Finally she rose and began to walk, followed by Henri.

"I count on our never seeing each other again, monsieur," she said, without turning round.

As she passed by the fountain she handed him her handkerchief, saying, "Will you dip that in the water for me?"

Henri obeyed, kneeling down on the curbstone. He handed her the damp handkerchief, and she pressed it to her forehead and her eyes.

"We will go in now," she said; "give me your arm."

"Oh, madame, how courageous you are!" said Mme. Mauperin, advancing to meet Mme. Bourjot when she entered the room. "It is not wise of you, though, at all. I will have your carriage ordered."

"No, please don't, thank you," replied Mme. Bourjot quickly. "I think I promised you that I would sing; I am quite ready now," and she went across to the piano, gracious and valiant once more, with that heroic smile beneath which society actors conceal from the public the tears they are weeping within themselves, and the wounds which discharge themselves into their hearts.