Jeanne did not answer, but her eyes filled with tears;

"You know that I love you," continued the mistress. "Come, come to my
arms as you used to do when you were little and were suffering. Place
your head thereon my heart and let your tears flow. I see they are
choking you."

Jeanne could no longer resist, and falling on her knees beside Madame
Desvarennes, she buried her face in the silky and scented folds of her
dress like a frightened bird that flies to the nest and hides itself
under the wings of its mother.

This great and hopeless grief was to the mistress a certain proof that
Cayrol was right. Jeanne had loved and still loved another man than her
husband. But why had she not said anything, and why had she allowed
herself to be married to the banker? She had resisted, she remembered
now. She had struggled, and the refusals they had put down to pride they
must now attribute to passion.

She did not wish to be separated from him whom she loved. Hence the
struggle that had ended in her abandoning her hand to Cayrol, perhaps in
a moment of despair and discouragement. But why had he whom she loved
not married her? What obstacle had arisen between him and the young
girl? Jeanne, so beautiful, and dowered by Madame Desvarennes, who then
could have hesitated to ask her hand?

Perhaps he whom Jeanne loved was unworthy of her? No! She would not
have chosen him. Perhaps he was not free to marry? Yes, it must be
that. Some married man, perhaps! A scoundrel who did not mind breaking