s, my dear child? He has just come in with his
mother."

And at that moment Madame de Nailles, with her pure, clear voice--a
voice frequently compared to that of Mademoiselle Reichemberg, called:

"Jacqueline!"

Jacqueline never crossed the imaginary line which divided the two salons
unless she was called upon to do so. She was still summoned like a child
to speak to certain persons who took an especial interest in her, and
who were kind enough to wish to see her--Madame d'Argy, for example,
who had been the dearest friend of her dead mother. The death of that
mother, who had been long replaced by a stepmother, could hardly be
said to be deeply regretted by Jacqueline. She remembered her very
indistinctly. The stories of her she had heard from Modeste, her old
nurse, probably served her instead of any actual memory. She knew her
only as a woman pale and in ill health, always lying on a sofa. The
little black frock that had been made for her had been hardly worn
out when a new mamma, as gay and fresh as the other had been sick and
suffering, had come into the household like a ray of sunshine.

After that time Madame d'Argy and Modeste were the only people who
spoke to her of the mother who was gone. Madame d'Argy, indeed, came on
certain days to take her to visit the tomb, on which the child read, as
she prayed for the departed:

MARIE JACQUELINE ADELAIDE DE VALTIER

BARONNE DE NAILLES

DIED AGED TWENTY-SIX YEARS

And such filial sentiment as she still retained, concerning the unknown
being who had been her mother, was tinged by her association with this
melancholy pilgrimage which she was expected to perform at certain
intervals. Without exactly knowing the reason why, Jacqueline was
conscious of a certain hostility that existed between Madame d'Argy and
her stepmother.

The intimate friend of the first Madame de Nailles was a woman with
neither elegance nor beauty. She never had left off her widow's weeds,
which she had worn since she had lost her husband in early youth. In the
eyes of Jacqueline her sombre figure personified austere, exacting Duty,
a kind of duty not attractive to her. That very day it seemed as if duty
inconveniently stepped in to break up a conversation that was deeply
interesting to her. The impatient gesture that she made when her mother
called her might have been interpreted into: Bother Madame d'Argy!

"Jacqueline!" called again the silvery voice th