of her heart!

"What do you mean? Madeleine, what do you suspect?"

"I mean this, aunt: that I do not believe that Clameran has any thought
of his nephew's welfare. Once in possession of my fortune, he may leave
you and Raoul to your fates. And there is another dreadful suspicion
that tortures my mind."

"A suspicion?"

"Yes, and I would reveal it to you, if I dared; if I did not fear that
you--"

"Speak!" insisted Mme. Fauvel. "Alas! misfortune has given me strength
to bear all things. There is nothing worse than has already happened. I
am ready to hear anything."

Madeleine hesitated; she wished to enlighten her credulous aunt, and yet
hesitated to distress her.

"I would like to be certain," she said, "that some secret understanding
between M. de Clameran and Raoul does not exist. Do you not think they
are acting a part agreed upon for the purpose of extorting money?"

Love is blind and deaf. Mme. Fauvel would not remember the laughing
eyes of the two men, upon the occasion of the pretended quarrel in her
presence. Infatuation had drowned suspicion. She could not, she would
not, believe in such hypocrisy. Raoul plot against the mother? Never!

"It is impossible," she said, "the marquis is really indignant and
distressed at his nephew's mode of life, and he certainly would not
countenance any disgraceful conduct. As to Raoul, he is vain, trifling,
and extravagant; but he has a good heart. Prosperity has turned his
head, but he loves me still. Ah, if you could see and hear him, when
I reproach him for his faults, your suspicions would fly to the winds.
When he tearfully promises to be more prudent, and never again give me
trouble, he means to keep his word; but perfidious friends entice
him away, and he commits some piece of folly without thinking of the
consequences."

Mothers always blame themselves and everyone else for the sins of their
sons. The innocent friends come in for the principal share of censure,
each mother's son leading the other astray.

Madeleine had not the heart to undeceive her aunt.

"God grant that what you say may be true," she said; "if so, this
marriage will not be useless. We will write to M. de Clameran to-night."

"Why to-night, Madeleine? We need not hurry so. Let us wait a little;
something else might happen to save us."

These words, this confidence in chance, in a mere nothing, revealed
Mme. Fauvel's true character, and accounted for her troubles. Timid,
hesitating, e