"She is her father's child," said the Marquise, kissing the little one
with eager warmth, as if she meant to pay a debt of affection or to
extinguish some feeling of remorse.

"How hot you are, mamma!"

"There, go away, my angel," said the Marquise.

The child went. She did not seem at all sorry to go; she did not look
back; glad perhaps to escape from a sad face, and instinctively
comprehending already an antagonism of feeling in its expression. A
mother's love finds language in smiles, they are a part of the divine
right of motherhood. The Marquise could not smile. She flushed red as
she felt the cure's eyes. She had hoped to act a mother's part before
him, but neither she nor her child could deceive him. And, indeed,
when a woman loves sincerely, in the kiss she gives there is a divine
honey; it is as if a soul were breathed forth in the caress, a subtle
flame of fire which brings warmth to the heart; the kiss that lacks
this delicious unction is meagre and formal. The priest had felt the
difference. He could fathom the depths that lie between the motherhood
of the flesh and the motherhood of the heart. He gave the Marquise a
keen, scrutinizing glance, then he said:

"You are right, madame; it would be better for you if you were
dead----"

"Ah!" she cried, "then you know all my misery; I see you do if,
Christian priest as you are, you can guess my determination to die and
sanction it. Yes, I meant to die, but I have lacked the courage. The
spirit was strong, but the flesh was weak, and when my hand did not