conceive of the state of violent agitation in which Madame Guillaume
found herself--she, who flattered herself on having brought up her
daughters to perfection--on discovering in Augustine a clandestine
passion of which her prudery and ignorance exaggerated the perils. She
believed her daughter to be cankered to the core.

"Hold your book right way up, miss," she muttered in a low voice,
tremulous with wrath. She snatched away the tell-tale prayer-book and
returned it with the letter-press right way up. "Do not allow your
eyes to look anywhere but at your prayers," she added, "or I shall
have something to say to you. Your father and I will talk to you after
church."

These words came like a thunderbolt on poor Augustine. She felt faint;
but, torn between the distress she felt and the dread of causing a
commotion in church she bravely concealed her anguish. It was,
however, easy to discern the stormy state of her soul from the
trembling of her prayer-book, and the tears which dropped on every
page she turned. From the furious glare shot at him by Madame
Guillaume the artist saw the peril into which his love affair had
fallen; he went out, with a raging soul, determined to venture all.

"Go to your room, miss!" said Madame Guillaume, on their return home;
"we will send for you, but take care not to quit it."

The conference between the husband and wife was conducted so secretly
that at first nothing was heard of it. Virginie, however, who had
tried to give her sister courage by a variety of gentle remonstrances,
carried her good nature so far as to listen at the door of her
mother's bedroom where the discussion was held, to catch a word or