of bitter words rose to his lips. However he had
strength enough to control himself. "Marguerite alone can triumph over
these implacable prejudices," he thought; "when my mother knows her, she
will feel how unjust they are!"

And as he found it difficult to remain master of himself, he stammered
some excuse, and abruptly retired to his own room, where he threw
himself on his bed. He felt that it was not his place to reproach his
mother or censure her for her opinions. What mother had ever been so
devoted as she had been? And who knows?--it was, perhaps, from these
same rigid prejudices that this simple-minded and heroic woman had
derived her energy, her enthusiastic love of God, her hatred of evil,
and that virility of spirit which misfortune had been powerless to
daunt. Besides, had she not promised to offer no opposition to his
marriage! And was not this a great concession, a sacrifice which must
have cost her a severe struggle? And where can one find the mother
who does not count as one of the sublime joys of maternity the task of
seeking a wife for her son, of choosing from among all others the young
girl who will be the companion of his life, the angel of his dark and of
his prosperous days? His mind was occupied with these thoughts when his
door suddenly opened, and he sprang up, exclaiming: "Who is it?"

It was Madame Vantrasson, who came to announce that dinner was
ready--a dinner which she had herself prepared, for on going out Madame
Ferailleur had left her in charge of the household. On seeing this
woman, Pascal was overcome with rage and indignation, and felt a wild
desire to annihilate her. He knew that she was only a vile slanderer,
but she might meet other beings as vile as herself who would be only too
glad to believe her falsehoods. And to think that he was powerless to
punish her! He now realized the suffering his mother had spoken of--the
most atrocious suffering which the lover can endure--powerlessness to
protect the object of his affections, when she is assailed. Engrossed
in these gloomy thoughts, Pascal preserved a sullen silence during the
repast. He ate because his mother filled his plate; but if he had been
questioned, he could scarcely have told what he was eating. And yet, the
modest dinner was excellent. Madame Vantrasson was really a good cook,
and in this first effort in her new situation she had surpassed herself.
Her vanity as a cordon-bleu was piqued because she did not receive the
co