Madame Roche sat by herself in the drawing-room of Melmar—the same beautiful old lady who used to sit working behind the flowers and white curtains of the little second floor window in St. Ouen. The room itself was changed from the fine disorderly room in which Mrs. Huntley had indulged her invalid tastes, and Patricia read her poetry-books. There was no longer a loose crumb-cloth to trip unwary feet, nor rumpled chintz covers to conceal the glory of the damask; and there was a wilderness of gilding, mirrors, cornices, chairs, and picture-frames, which changed the sober aspect of Melmar, and threw a somewhat fanciful and foreign character upon the grave Scotch apartment, looking out through its three windows upon the solemn evergreens and homely grass-plot, which had undergone no change. One of the windows was open, and that was garlanded round, like a cottage window, with a luxuriance of honey suckle and roses, which the “former family” would have supposed totally unsuited to the “best room in the house.” It was before this open window, with the sweet morning breeze waving the white curtains over her, and the roses leaning in in little crowds, that Madame Roche sat. She was reading—at least she had a book in her hand, among the leaves of which the sweet air rustled playfully; it was a pious, pretty book of meditations, which suited both the time and the reader, and she sat sometimes looking into it, sometime suffering her eyes and mind to stray, with a sweet pensive gravity on her fair old face, and tender, subdued thoughts in her heart. Madame Roche was not profound in any thing; perhaps there was not very much depth in those pious thoughts, or even in the sadness which just overshadowed them. Perhaps she had even a far-off consciousness that Cosmo Livingstone saw a very touching little picture, when he saw the mother by the window reading the Sabbath book in that Sabbath calm, and saying prayers in her heart for poor Marie. But do not blame Madame Roche—she still did say the prayers, and out of an honest heart.

When DesirÉe flew into the room, flushed and out of breath, and threw herself upon her mother so suddenly, that Madame Roche’s composure was quite overthrown:—

“Mamma, mamma!” cried DesirÉe, in what was almost a scream, though it was under her breath, “listen—Pierrot is here; he has found us out.”

“What, child? Pierrot? It is impossible!” cried Madame Roche.

“Things that are impossible are always true!” exclaimed the breathless DesirÉe; “he is here—Cosmo has seen him; he has come to seek Marie.”

“Cosmo? is he here?” said Madame Roche, rising. The old lady had become quite agitated, and her voice trembled. The book had fallen out of the hands which she clasped tightly together, in her fright and astonishment. “But he is mistaken, DesirÉe; he does not know Pierrot.”

When Cosmo, however, came forward to tell his own story, Madame Roche became still more disturbed and troubled:—

“To come now!” she exclaimed to herself with another expressive French pressure of her hands—“to come now! Had he come in St. Ouen, when we were poor, I could have borne it; but now, perceive you what will happen, DesirÉe? He will place himself here, and squander our goods and make us despised. He will call my poor Marie by his mean name—she, a Roche de St. Martin! and she will be glad to have it so. Alas, my poor deluded child!”

“Still though he is so near, he has not found you yet; and if he does find you, the house is yours, you can refuse him admission; let me remain, in case you should want me,” said Cosmo eagerly; “I have been your representative ere now.”

Madame Roche was walking softly about the room, preserving through all her trouble, even now when she had been five years in this great house, the old habit of restraining her voice and step, which had been necessary when Marie lay in the little back chamber at St. Ouen, within constant hearing of her mother. She stopped for an instant to smile upon her young advocate and supporter, as a queen might smile upon a partisan whose zeal was more than his wisdom; and then went on hurriedly addressing her daughter.

“For Marie, poor soul, would be crazed with joy. Ah, my DesirÉe! who can tell me what to do? For my own pleasure, my own comfort, a selfish mother, must I sacrifice my child?”

“Mamma,” cried DesirÉe, with breathless vehemence, “I love Marie—I would give my life for her; but if Pierrot comes to Melmar, I will go. It is true—I remember him—I will not live with Pierrot in one house.”

Madame Roche clasped her hands once more, and cast up her eyes with a gesture of despair. “What can I do—what am I to do? I am a woman alone—I have no one to advise me,” she cried, pacing softly about the room, with her clasped hands and eyes full of trouble. Cosmo’s heart was quite moved with her distress.

“Let me remain with you to-day,” said Cosmo, “and if he comes, permit me to see him. You can trust me. If you authorize me to deny him admission, he certainly shall not enter here.”

“Ah, my friend!” cried Madame Roche. “Ah, my child! what can I say to you? Marie loves him.”

“And he has made her miserable,” cried DesirÉe, with passion. “But, because she loves him, you will let him come here to make us all wretched. I knew it would be so. She loves him—it is enough! He will make her frantic—he will break her heart—he will insult you, me, every one! But Marie loves him! and so, though he is misery, he must come. I knew it would be so; but I will not stay to see it all—I can not! I will never stand by and watch while he kills Marie. Mamma! mamma! will you be so cruel? But I can not speak—I am angry—wretched! I will go to Marie and nurse her, and be calm; but if Pierrot comes, DesirÉe will stay no longer. For you know it is true!”

And so speaking DesirÉe went, lingering and turning back to deliver herself always of a new exclamation, to the door, out of which she disappeared at last, still protesting her determination with violence and passion. Madame Roche stood still, looking after her. There was great distress in the mother’s face, but it did not take that lofty form of pain which her child’s half-defiance might have produced. She was not wounded by what DesirÉe said. She turned round sighing to where Cosmo stood, not perfectly satisfied, it must be confessed, with the bearing of his betrothed.

“Poor child! she feels it!” said Madame Roche, “and, indeed, it is true, and she is right; but what must I do, my friend? Marie loves him. To see him once more might restore Marie.”

“Mademoiselle DesirÉe says he will break her heart,” said Cosmo, feeling himself bound to defend the lady of his love, even though he did not quite approve of her.

“Do not say mademoiselle. She is of this country; she is not a stranger,” said Madame Roche with her bright, usual smile; “and he will break her heart if he is not changed; do I not know it? But then—ah, my friend, you are young and impatient, and so is DesirÉe. Would you not rather have your wish and your love, though it killed you to have it, than to live year after year in a blank peacefulness? It is thus with Marie; she lives, but her life does not make her glad. She loves him—she longs for him; and shall I know how her heart pines, and be able to give her joy, yet keep silence, as though I knew nothing? It might be most wise; but I am not wise—I am but her mother—what must I do?”

“You will not give her a momentary pleasure, at the risk of more serious suffering,” said Cosmo, with great gravity.

But the tears came to Madame Roche’s eyes. She sank into a chair, and covered her face with her hand. “It would be joy!—can I deny her joy? for she loves him,” faltered Marie’s mother. As he looked at her with impatient, yet tender eyes, the young man forgave DesirÉe for her impatience. How was it possible to deal calmly with the impracticable sentiment and “feelings” of Madame Roche?

“I came to speak to you of myself,” said Cosmo. “I can not speak of myself in the midst of this trouble; but I beg you to think better of it. If he is all that you say, do not admit him here.”

“Of yourself?” said Madame Roche, removing her hand from her face, and stretching out to him that tender white hand which was still as soft and fair as if it had been young instead of old. “My child, I am not so selfish as to forget you who have been so good to us. Tell me what it is about yourself?”

And as she smiled and bent towards him, Cosmo’s heart beat high, half with hope half with shame, for he felt guilty when he remembered that neither himself nor DesirÉe had confessed their secret betrothal to DesirÉe’s mother. In spite of himself, he could not help feeling a shadow of blame thrown upon DesirÉe, and the thought wounded him. He was full of the unreasonable, romantic love of youth. He could not bear, by the merest instinctive secret action of his mind, to acknowledge a defect in her.

“You say, ‘Marie loves him’—that is reason enough for a great sacrifice from you,” cried Cosmo, growing out of breath with anxiety and agitation; “and DesirÉe—and I,—what will you say to us? Oh, madame, you are kind, you are very kind. Be more than my friend, and give DesirÉe to me!”

“DesirÉe!"—Madame Roche rose up, supporting herself by her chair—“DesirÉe! but she knows she is destined otherwise—you know—DesirÉe!” cried Madame Roche, clasping her pretty hands in despair. “She is dedicated—she is under a vow—she has to do justice! My friend Cosmo—my son—my young deliverer!—do not—do not ask this! It breaks my heart to say no to you; but I can never, never give you DesirÉe!”

“Why?” said Cosmo, almost sternly. “You talk of love—will you deny its claim? DesirÉe does not say no. I ask you again, give her to me! My love will never wound her nor break her heart. I do not want the half of your estate, and neither does my brother! Give me DesirÉe—I can work for her, and she would be content to share my fortune. She is content—I have her own word for it. I demand it of you for true love’s sake, madame—you, who speak of love! Give her to me!”

“Alas!” cried Madame Roche, wringing her hands—“alas! my child! I speak of love because Marie is his wife; but a young girl is different! She must obey her destiny! You are young—you will forget it. A year hence, you will smile when you think of your passion. No—my friend Cosmo, hear me! No, no, you must not have DesirÉe—I will give you any thing else in this world that you wish, if I can procure it, but DesirÉe is destined otherwise. No, no, I can not change—you can not have DesirÉe!”

And on this point the tender and soft Madame Roche was inexorable—no intreaty, no remonstrance, no argument could move her! She stood her ground with a gentle iteration which drove Cosmo wild. No, no, no; any thing but DesirÉe. She was grieved for him—ready to take him into her arms and weep over him—but perfectly impenetrable in her tender and tearful obstinacy. And when, at last, Cosmo rushed from the house, half mad with love, disappointment, and mortification, forgetting all about Pierrot and everybody else save the DesirÉe who was never to be his, Madame Roche sat down, wiping her eyes and full of grief, but without the faintest idea of relinquishing the plans by which her daughter was to compensate Huntley Livingstone for the loss of Melmar.