e that had
remained beautiful by her power of will and self-control. But now the
disorder of her nerves got the better of precautions. The blonde
angel, whose beauty was on the wane, was transformed into a fury.
Her six-and-thirty years were fully apparent, her complexion appeared
slightly blotched, all her defects were obtrusive in contrast with the
precocious development of beauty in Jacqueline. She was firmly resolved
that her stepdaughter's obtrusive womanhood should remain in obscurity a
very much longer time, under pretence that Jacqueline was still a child.
She was a child, at any rate! The portrait was a lie! an imposture! an
affront! an outrage!

Meantime M. de Nailles, almost beside himself, fancied at first that
his wife was going mad, but in the midst of her sobs and reproaches he
managed to discover that he had somehow done her wrong, and when, with
a broken voice, she cried, "You no longer love me!" he did not know
what to do to prove how bitterly he repented having grieved her. He
stammered, he made excuses, he owned that he had been to blame, that he
had been very stupid, and he begged her pardon. As to the portrait,
it should be taken from the salon, where, if seen, it might become a
pretext for foolish compliments to Jacqueline. Why not send it at once
to Grandchaux? In short, he would do anything she wished, provided she
would leave off crying.

But Madame de Nailles continued to weep. Her husband was forced at last
to leave her and to return to Jacqueline, who stood petrified in the
salon.

"Yes," he said, "your mamma is right. We have made a deplorable mistake
in what we have done. Besides, you must know that this unlucky picture
is not in the least like you. Marien has made some use of your features
to paint a fancy portrait--so we will let nobody see it. They might
laugh at you."

In this way he hoped to repair the evil he had done in flattering his
daughter's vanity, and promoting that dangerous spirit of independence,
denounced to him a few minutes before, but of which, up to that time, he
had never heard.

Jacqueline, in her turn, began to sob.

Mademoiselle Schult had cause, too, to wipe her eyes, pretending a more
or less sincere repentance for her share in the deception. Vigorously
cross-questioned by Madame de Nailles, who called upon her to tell all
she knew, under pain of being dismissed immediately, she saw but one way
of retaining her situation, which was to deliver up Jacquelin