three times. I quitted her closet, and left them together in
conversation; but, as soon as he was gone, I returned and entreated her
to let me know if I had been so unhappy as to have done anything, through
ignorance, which had given her offence. She was at first inclined to
dissemble with me; but at length she said to me thus: "Daughter, your
brother is prudent and cautious; you ought not to be displeased with him
for what he does, and you must believe what I shall tell you is right and
proper." She then related the conversation she had with my brother, as I
have just written it; and she then ordered me never to speak to her in my
brother's presence.

These words were like so many daggers plunged into my breast. In my
disgrace, I experienced as much grief as I had before joy on being
received into her favour and confidence. I did not omit to say
everything to convince her of my entire ignorance of what my brother had
told her. I said it was a matter I had never heard mentioned before; and
that, had I known it, I should certainly have made her immediately
acquainted with it. All I said was to no purpose; my brother's words had
made the first impression; they were constantly present in her mind, and
outweighed probability and truth. When I discovered this, I told her
that I felt less uneasiness at being deprived of my happiness than I did
joy when I had acquired it; for my brother had taken it from me, as he
had given it. He had given it without reason; he had taken it away
without cause. He had praised me for discretion and prudence when I did
not merit it, and he suspected my fidelity on grounds wholly imaginary
and fictitious. I concluded with assuring her that I should never forget
my brother's behaviour on this occasion.

Hereupon she flew into a passion and commanded me not to make the least
show of resentment at his behaviour. From that hour she gradually