ghter, that is
true."

"But have you ever spoken to her? I blush for her when there are people
there! Have you ever looked at her? Do you think her pretty? What
possesses you men? Come! I am better-looking than she is! You men are
fools. And besides, my friend, I have spoiled you. Go to her and ask her
to caress your pride, to tickle your vanity, to flatter and to serve
your ambitions,--for you are ambitious: I know you! Ah, M. Mauperin, one
can only find that once in a lifetime! And it is only women of my age,
old women like me,--do you hear me?--who love the future of the people
whom they love! You were not my lover, you were my grandchild!" And at
this word, her voice sounded as though it came from the bottom of her
heart. Then immediately changing her tone--"But don't be foolish! I tell
you you don't really love my daughter; it is not true: she is rich!"

"O madame!"

"Good gracious! there are lots of people. They have been pointed out to
me. It pays sometimes to begin with the mother and finish with the
dower. And a million, you know, will gild a good many pills."

"Speak lower, I implore--for your own sake: some one has just opened a
window."

"Calmness is very fine, M. Mauperin, very fine, very fine," repeated
Madame Bourjot. And her low, hissing voice seemed to stifle her.

Clouds were scudding across the sky, and passed over the moon looking
like huge bats' wings. Madame Bourjot gazed fixedly into the darkness,
straight in front of her. Her elbows resting on her knees, her weight
thrown on to her heels, she was beating with the points of her satin
shoes the gravel of the path. After a few minutes she sat upright,
stretched out her arms two or three times wildly and as though but half
awake; then, hastily and with jerks, she pushed her hand down between
her gown and her waistband, pressing her hand against the ribbon as
though she would break it. Then she rose and began to walk. Henry
followed her.

"I intend, sir, that we shall never see each other again," she said to
him, without turning round.

As they passed near the basin, she handed him her handkerchief:--

"Wet that for me."

Henry put one knee on the margin and gave her back the lace, which he
had moistened. She laid it on her forehead and on her eyes. "Now let us
go in," she said; "give me your arm."

"Oh, dear madame, what courage!" said Madame Mauperin, going to meet
Madame Bourjot as she entered; "but it is unwise of you. Let me order