And she remained in bed, just as if she had been ill. Toward three
o'clock, some one knocked again. She asked:

"Who is there?"

It was her mother's voice which replied: "It is I, darling, I have
come to see how you are."

She hesitated what she should do. She opened the door, and then went
back to bed. The Marquise approached, and, speaking in low tones, as
people do to a convalescent, said:

"Well, are you better? Won't you eat an egg?"

"No, thanks, nothing at all."

Madame Obardi sat down near the bed. They remained without saying
anything, then, finally, as her daughter stayed quiet, with her
hands inert upon the bedclothes, she asked:

"Don't you intend to get up?"

Yvette answered: "Yes, pretty soon."

Then in a grave and slow tone she said: "I have thought a great
deal, mamma, and this--this is my resolution. The past is the past,
let us speak no more of it. But the future shall be different or I
know what is left for me to do. Now, let us say no more about it."

The Marquise, who thought the explanation finished, felt her
impatience gaining a little. It was too much. This big goose of a
girl ought to have known about things long ago. But she did not say
anything in reply, only repeating:

"You are going to get up?"

"Yes, I am ready."

Then her mother became maid for her, bringing her stockings, her
corset, and her skirts. Then she kissed her.

"Will you take a walk before dinner?"

"Yes, mamma."

And they took a stroll along the water, speaking only of commonplace
things.

CHAPTER IV.

FROM EMOTION TO PHILOSOPHY

The following day, early in the morning, Yvette went out alone to
the place where Servigny had read her the history of the ants. She
said to herself:

"I am not going away from this spot without having formed a
resolution."

Before her, at her feet, the water flowed rapidly, filled with large
bubbles which passed in silent flight with deep whirlings. She
already had summed up the points of the situation and the means of
extricating herself from it. What should she do if her mother would
not accept the conditions which she had imposed, would not renounce
her present way of living, her set of visitors--everything and go
and hide with her in a distant land?

She might go alone, take flight, but where, and how? What would she
live on? By working? At what? To whom should she apply to find work?
And, then, the dull and humble life of working-women, daughters of
the p