even from me," said Madame Desvarennes with instinctive anguish.

She was silent. Her eyes became fixed. They looked without seeing. She
was thinking.

"I beseech you," cried Jeanne, madly placing her hands before Madame
Desvarennes's face as if to check her scrutiny.

"If I had a, son," continued the mistress, "I would believe--" Suddenly
she ceased speaking; she became pale, and bending toward Jeanne, she
looked into her very soul.

"Is it--"she began.

"No! no!" interrupted Jeanne, terrified at seeing that the mistress had
found out the truth.

"You deny it before I have pronounced the name?" said Madame Desvarennes
in a loud voice. "You read it then on my lips? Unhappy girl! The man
whom you love is the husband of my daughter!"

My daughter! The accent with which Madame Desvarennes pronounced the
word "my" was full of tragical power. It revealed the mother capable of
doing anything to defend the happiness of the child whom she adored.
Serge had calculated well. Between Jeanne and Micheline, Madame
Desvarennes would not hesitate. She would have allowed the world to
crumble away to make of its ruins a shelter where her daughter would be
joyous and happy.

Jeanne had fallen back overwhelmed. The mistress raised her roughly.