every man of sense must at once have stated to himself this
obvious dilemma--either these two women are honesty itself, or
they live by intrigue and gambling. But on looking at Adelaide, a
man so pure-minded as Schinner could not but believe in her
perfect innocence, and ascribe the incoherence of the furniture
to honorable causes.

"My dear," said the old lady to the young one, "I am cold; make a
little fire, and give me my shawl."

Adelaide went into a room next the drawing-room, where she no
doubt slept, and returned bringing her mother a cashmere shawl,
which when new must have been very costly; the pattern was
Indian; but it was old, faded and full of darns, and matched the
furniture. Madame Leseigneur wrapped herself in it very
artistically, and with the readiness of an old woman who wishes
to make her words seem truth. The young girl ran lightly off to
the lumber-room and reappeared with a bundle of small wood, which
she gallantly threw on the fire to revive it.

It would be rather difficult to reproduce the conversation which
followed among these three persons. Hippolyte, guided by the tact
which is almost always the outcome of misfortune suffered in
early youth, dared not allow himself to make the least remark as
to his neighbors' situation, as he saw all about him the signs of
ill-disguised poverty. The simplest question would have been an
indiscretion, and could only be ventured on by old friendship.
The painter was nevertheless absorbed in the thought of this
concealed penury, it pained his generous soul; but knowing how
offensive every kind of pity may be, even the friendliest, the