while the General began to tell Madame Fonsegue another story as they
descended the stairs together. However, at the moment when the mother and
daughter at last fancied themselves alone once more, other voices reached
their ears, those of Duvillard and Fonsegue, who were still near at hand.
The Baron from his room might well overhear the dispute.

Eve felt that she ought to have gone off. But she had lacked the strength
to do so; it had been a sheer impossibility for her after those words
which had smote her like a buffet amidst her distress at the thought of
losing her lover.

"Gerard cannot marry you," she said; "he does not love you."

"He does."

"You fancy it because he has good-naturedly shown some kindness to you,
on seeing others pay you such little attention. But he does not love
you."

"He does. He loves me first because I'm not such a fool as many others
are, and particularly because I'm young."

This was a fresh wound for the Baroness; one inflicted with mocking
cruelty in which rang out all the daughter's triumphant delight at seeing
her mother's beauty at last ripening and waning. "Ah! my poor mamma, you
no longer know what it is to be young. If I'm not beautiful, at all
events I'm young; my eyes are clear and my lips are fresh. And my hair's
so long too, and I've so much of it that it would suffice to gown me if I
chose. You see, one's never ugly when one's young. Whereas, my poor
mamma, everything is ended when one gets old. It's all very well for a
woman to have been beautiful, and to strive to keep so, but in reality
there's only ruin left, and shame and disgust."

She spoke these words in such a sharp, ferocious voice that each of them
entered her mother's heart like a knife. Tears rose to the eyes of the
wretched woman, again stricken in her bleeding wound. Ah! it was true,
she remained without weapons against youth. And all her anguish came from
the consciousness that she was growing old, from the feeling that love
was departing from her now, that like a fruit she had ripened and fallen
from the tree.

"But Gerard's mother will never let him marry you," she said.

"He will prevail on her; that's his concern. I've a dowry of two
millions, and two millions can settle many things."

"Do you now want to libel him, and say that he's marrying you for your
money?"

"No, indeed! Gerard's a very nice and honest fellow. He loves me and he's
marrying me for myself. But, after all, he isn't rich;